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THE WORKS OF 
GEORGE MEREDITH 


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THE BOXHILL EDITION IN 17 VOLS. 
With Photogravure Frontispieces 
Each, Crown Svo, $1.60 net 

CELT AND SAXON 

THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 

DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

SANDRA BELLONI 

VITTORIA 

RHODA FLEMING 

THE EGOIST 

THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY RICHMOND 

BEAUCHAMP’S CAREER 

EVAN HARRINGTON 

ONE OF OUR CONQUERORS 

THE SHAVING OF SHAGPAT 

THE TRAGIC COMEDIANS 

LORD ORMONT AND HIS AMINTA 

THE AMAZING MARRIAGE 

SHORT STORIES 

POEMS 

THE POCKET EDITION IN 18 VOLS. 

(; including THE POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY OF 
GEORGE MEREDITH by George Macaulay Trevelyn) 

Each volume sold separately 

Limp Leather, $1. 75 net Cloth, $L 35 net 


AN ESSAY ON COMEDY AND THE USES OF 
THE COMIC SPIRIT . . . net $1.25 

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LAST POEMS net % 1.25 

THE MEREDITH POCKET BOOK 

Leather, net $1.00 


Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


S Nalitl 


BY 

GEORGE MEREDITH 

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REVISED EDITION 


NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
1919 

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COPYRIGHT. 1897, 
QEORGE MEREDITH 










INSCRIBED 


TO 


FREDERICK POLLOCK 


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CONTENTS 


V 


CHAP. \ PAG* 

* I. OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS TOUCHING THE HEROINE 1 
x II. AN IRISH BALL 17 

III. THE INTERIOR OF MR. REDWORTH AND THE EXTERIOR 

OF MR. SULLIVAN SMITH 28 

IV. CONTAINING HINTS OF DIANA’S EXPERIENCES AND 

OF WHAT THEY LED TO 37 

/ 

V. CONCERNING THE SCRUPULOUS GENTLEMAN WHO 

CAME TOO LATE 49 

VI. THE COUPLE . 58 

VII. THE CRISIS 63 

VIII. IN WHICH ' IS EXHIBITED HOW A PRACTICAL MAN 
AND A DIVINING WOMAN LEARN TO RESPECT ONE 

ANOTHER 7 4 

IX. SHOWS HOW A POSITION OF DELICACY FOR A LADY 
AND GENTLEMAN WAS MET IN SIMPLE FASHION 

WITHOUT HURT TO EITHER '87 

X. THE CONFLICT OF THE NIGHT 95 

XI. RECOUNTS THE JOURNEY IN A CHARIOT, WITH A 
CERTAIN AMOUNT OF DIALOGUE, AND A SMALL 

INCIDENT ON THE ROAD 100 

y • 

XII. BETWEEN EMMA AND DIANA 107 

XIII. TOUCHING THE FIRST DAYS OF HER PROBATION. . 114 


nil 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAOi 

XIV. GIVING GLIMPSES OF DIANA UNDER HER CLOUD 

BEFORE THE WORLD AND OF HER FURTHER 

APPRENTICESHIP * 123 

XV. INTRODUCES THE HON. PERCY DACIER ‘. . . » 136 


XVI. TREATS OF A MIDNIGHT BELL, AND OF A SCENE 

OF EARLY MORNING 146 

XVII. “THE PRINCESS EGERIA” ...-♦•** 160 

XVIII. THE AUTHORESS 1?0 

XIX. A DRIVE IN SUNLIGHT AND A DRIVE IN MOON' 

LIGHT N8 

\XX. DIANA’S NIGHT-WATCH IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH 187 

XXI. “THE YOUNG MINISTER OF STATE*’ 196 

XXII. BETWEEN DIANA AND DACIER* THE WIND EAST 

OVER BLEAK LAND * 208 

XXIII. RECORDS A VISIT TO DIANA FROM ONE OF THE 

WORLD’S GOOD WOMEN 21? 

XXIV. INDICATES A SOUL PREPARED FOR DESPERATION 226 

XXV. ONCE MORE THE CROSSWAYS AND A CHANGE OF 

TURNINGS . 232 

XXVI. IN WHICH A DISAPPOINTED LOVER RECEIVES A 

MULTITUDE OF LESSONS 241 

XXVII. CONTAINS MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION . 254 

XXVIII. DIALOGUE ROUND THE SUBJECT OF A PORTRAIT, 

WITH SOME INDICATIONS OF THE TASK FOR 

DIANA 269 

XXIX. SHOWS THE APPROACHES OF THE POLITICAL AND 

THE DOMESTIC CRISIS IN COMPANY .... 281 

XXX. IN WHICH THERE IS A TASTE OF A LITTLE DINNER 

AND AN AFTERTASTE 295 

XXXI A CHAPTER CONTAINING GREAT POLITICAL NEWS 
AND THEREWITH AN INTRUSION OF THE LOVE- 


CONTENTS iX 

chap. page 

XXXII. WHEREIN WE BEHOLD A GIDDY TURN AT THE 

SPECTRAL CROSSWAYS 309 


XXXIII. EXHIBITS THE SPRINGING OF A MINE IN A NEWS- 
PAPER ARTICLE 315 

XXXIY. IN WHICH IT IS DARKLY SEEN HOW THE CRIM- 
INAL’S JUDGE MAY BE LOVE’S CRIMINAL , . 321 

XXXV, REVEALS HOW THE TRUE HEROINE OF ROMANCE 

COMES FINALLY TO HER TIME OF TRIUMPH , 328 

XXXVI. IS CONCLUSIVE AS TO THE HEARTLESSNESS OF 

WOMEN WITH BRAINS 337 

XXXVII. AN EXHIBITION OF SOME CHAMPIONS OF THE 

STRICKEN LADY 347 

XXXVIII. CONVALESCENCE OF A HEALTHY MIND DISTRAUGHT 357 
XXXIX. OF NATURE WITH ONE OF HER CULTIVATED 
DAUGHTERS AND A SHORT EXCURSION IN ANTI- 
CLIMAX ....... 363 

XL. IN WHICH WE SEE NATURE MAKING OF A WOMAN 

A MAID AGAIN, AND A THRICE WHIMSICAL . 374 

XLI. CONTAINS A REVELATION OF THE ORIGIN OF THE 

TIGRESS IN DIANA 384 

XLII. THE PENULTIMATE ! SHOWING A FINAL STRUGGLE 

FOR LIBERTY AND RUN INTO HARNESS . . . 392 

fcLIII. NUPTIAL CHAPTER ; AND OF HOW A BARELY WILL- 
ING WOMAN WAS LED TO BLOOM WITH THE 


NUPTIAL SENTIMENT 


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A lady of high distinction for wit and beauty, 
the daughter of an illustrious Irish House, came 
under the shadow of a calumny. 

It has latterly been examined and exposed as 
baseless. The story of “ Diana of the Crossways ” 
is to be read as fiction . 















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DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


CHAPTER I 

OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS TOUCHING THE HEROINE 

Among the Diaries beginning with the second quarter of 
our century, there is frequent mention of a lady then be- 
coming famous for her beauty and her wit: “an unusual 
combination,” in the deliberate syllables of one of the 
writers, who is, however, not disposed to personal irony 
when speaking of her. It is otherwise in his case: and a 
general fling at the sex we may deem pardonable, for doing 
as little harm to womankind as the stone of an urchin cast 
upon the bosom of mother Earth; though men must look 
some day to have it returned to them, which is a certainty; 
— and indeed full surely will our idle-handed youngster 
too, in his riper season, be heard complaining of a strange 
assault of wanton missiles, coming on him he knows not 
whence ; for we are all of us distinctly marked to get back 
what we give, even from the thing named inanimate 
nature. 

The “Leaves from the Diary of Henry Wilmers” 
are studded with examples of the dinner-table wit of the 
time, not always worth quotation twice; for smart remarks 
have their measured distances, many requiring to be a 
brule pourpoint, or within throw of the pistol, to make it 
hit; in other words, the majority of them are addressed 
directly to our muscular system, and they have no effect 
when we stand beyond the range. On the contrary, they 
reflect sombrely on the springs of hilarity in the genera- 
tion preceding us; — with due reserve of credit, of course, 

A 


2 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


to an animal vivaciousness that seems to have wanted so 
small an incitement. Our old yeomanry farmers returning 
to their beds over ferny commons under bright moonlight 
from a neighbour’s harvest-home, eased their bubbling 
breasts with a ready roar not unakin to it. Still the 
promptness to laugh is an excellent progenitorial founda- 
tion for the wit to come in a people; and undoubtedly the 
diarial record of an imputed piece of wit is witness to the 
spouting of laughter. This should comfort us while we 
skim the sparkling passages of the “Leaves.” When a 
nation has acknowledged that it is as yet but in the fisti- 
cuff stage of the art of condensing our purest sense to 
golden sentences, a readier appreciation will be extended 
to the gift: which is to strike not the dazzled eyes, the 
unanticipating nose, the ribs, the sides, and stun us, twirl 
us, hoodwink, mystify, tickle and twitch, by dexterities 
of lingual sparring and shuffling, but to strike roots in the 
mind, the Hesperides of good things. 

We shall then set a price on the “unusual combination.” 
A witty woman is a treasure; a witty Beauty is a power. 
Has she actual beauty, actual wit? — not simply a tidal 
material beauty that passes current any pretty flippancy 
or staggering pretentiousness? Grant the combination, 
she will appear a veritable queen of her period, fit for 
homage; at least meriting a disposition to believe the best 
of her, in the teeth of foul rumour; because the well of 
true wit is truth itself, the gathering of the precious drops 
of right reason, wisdom’s lightning; and no soul possess- 
ing and dispensing it can justly be a target for the world, 
however well armed the world confronting her. Our tern- 
porary world, that Old Credulity and stone-hurling urchin 
in one, supposes it possible fora woman to be mentally 
active up to the point of spiritual clarity and also fleshly 
vile; a guide to life and a biter at the fruits of death; both 
open mind and hypocrite. It has not yet been taught to 
appreciate a quality certifying to sound citizenship as 
authoritatively as acres of land in fee simple, or coffers of 
bonds, shares and stocks, and a more imperishable guaran- 
tee. The multitude of evil reports which it tabes' for 
proof, are marshalled against her without question of the 
nature of the victim, her temptress beauty being a suffi- 


v 


OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS 


3 


ciently presumptive delinquent. It does not pretend to 
know the whole, or naked body of the facts; it knows 
enough for its fumy dubiousness; and excepting the sen- 
timental of men, a rocket-headed horde, ever at the heels 
}f fair faces for ignition, and up starring away at a hint 
of tearfulness ; — excepting further by chance a solid 
champion man, or some generous woman capable of faith 
in the pelted solitary of her sex, our temporary world 
blows direct East on her shivering person. The scandal 
is warrant for that; the circumstances of the scandal 
emphasize the warrant. And how clever she is! Clever- 
ness is an attribute of the selecter missionary lieutenants 
of Satan. We pray to be defended from her cleverness: 
she flashes bits of speech that catch men in their unguarded 
corner. The wary stuff their ears, the stolid bid her best 
v sayings rebound on her reputation. Nevertheless the 
world, as Christian, remembers its professions, and a por- 
tion of it joins the burly in morals by extending to her a 
rough old charitable mercifulness; better than sentimental 
ointment, but the heaviest blow she has to bear, to a char- 
acter swimming for life. 

That the lady in question was much quoted, the Diaries 
and Memoirs testify. Hearsay as well as hearing was at 
work to produce the abundance; and it was a novelty in 
England, where (in company) the men are the pointed 
talkers, and the women conversationally fair Circassians. 
They are, or they know that they should be; it comes to 
the same. Happily our civilization has not prescribed the 
veil to them. The mutes have here and there a sketch or 
label attached to their names: they are “ strikingly hand- 
some; ” they are “very good-looking;” occasionally they 
are noted as “extremely entertaining:” in what manner, 
is inquired by a curious posterity, that in so many matters 
is left unendingly to jump the empty and gaping figure of 
interrogation over its own full stop. Great ladies must 
they be, at the web of politics, for us to hear them cited 
discoursing. Henry Wilmers is not content to quote the 
beautiful Mrs. Warwick, he attempts a portrait. Mrs. War- 
wick is “quite Grecian.” She might “pose for a statue.” 
He presents her in carpenter’s lines, with a dab of school- 
box colours, effective to those whom the Keepsake fashion 


4 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


can stir. She has a straight nose, red lips, raven hair, 
black eyes, rich complexion, a remarkably fine bust, and 
she walks well, and has an agreeable voice; likewise “ deli- 
cate extremities.” The writer was created for popularity, 
had he chosen to bring his art into our literary market. 

Perry Wilkinson is not so elaborate: he describes her in 
his “ Recollections ” as a splendid brune, eclipsing all the 
blondes coming near her: and “what is more, the beautiful 
creature can talk.” He wondered, for she was young, new 
to society. Subsequently he is rather ashamed of his won- 
derment, and accounts for it by “not having known she 
was Irish.” She “turns out to be Dan Merion’s daughter.” 

We may assume that he would have heard if she had 
any whiff of a brogue. Her sounding of the letter R a 
trifle scrupulously is noticed by Lady Pennon: “And last, 
not least, the lovely Mrs. Warwick, twenty minutes be- 
hind the dinner-hour, and r-r-really fearing she was late.” 
After alluding t.o the soft influence of her beauty and 
ingenuousness on the vexed hostess, the kindly old mar- 
chioness adds, that it was no wonder she was late, “for 
just before starting from home she had broken loose from 
her husband for good, and she entered the room absolutely 
houseless!” She was not the less “ astonishingly brilliant.” 
Her observations were often “ so unexpectedly droll I 
laughed till I cried.” Lady Pennon became in consequence 
one of the stanch supporters of Mrs. Warwick. 

Others were not so- easily won. Perry Wilkinson holds 
a balance when it goes beyond a question of her wit and 
beauty. Henry Wilmers puts the case aside, and takes 
her as he finds her. His cousin, the clever and cynical 
Dorset Wilmers, whose method of conveying his opinions 
without stating them was famous, repeats on two occasions 
when her name appears in his pages, “handsome, lively, 
witty;” and the stressed repetition of calculated brevity 
while a fiery scandal was abroad concerning the lady, 
implies weighty substance — the reservation of a con- 
stable’s truncheon, that could legally have knocked her 
character down to the pavement. We have not to ask 
what he judged. But Dorset Wilmers was a political 
opponent of the eminent Peer who yields the second name 
to the scandal, and politics in his day flushed the con- 


OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS 


5 


^eptions of men. His short references to “that Warwick- 
•JDannisburgh affair ” are not verbally malicious. He gets 
wind of the terms of Lord Dannisburgh’s will and testa* 
ment, noting them without comment. The oddness of the 
instrument in one respect may have served his turn; we 
have no grounds for thinking him malignant. The death 
of his enemy closes his allusions to Mrs. Warwick. He 
was growing ancient, and gout narrowed the circle he 
whirled in. Had he known this “handsome, lively, witty ” 
apparition as a woman having political and social views of 
her own, he would not, one fancies, have been so stingless. 
Our England exposes a sorry figure in his Keminiscences. 
He struck heavily, round and about him, wherever he 
moved; he had by nature a tarnishing eye that cast dis- 
colouration. His unadorned harsh substantive statements, 
excluding the adjectives, give his Memoirs the appearance 
of a body of facts, attractive to the historic Muse, which 
has learnt to esteem those brawny sturdy giants marching 
club on shoulder, independent of henchman, in preference 
to your panoplied knights with their puffy squires, once 
her favourites, and wind-filling to her columns, ultimately 
found indigestible. 

His exhibition of his enemy Lord Dannisburgh is of the 
class of noble portraits we see swinging over inn-portals, 
grossly unlike in likeness. The possibility of the man’s 
doing or saying this and that adumbrates the improbability: 
he had something of the character capable of it, too much 
good sense for the performance. We would think so, and 
still the shadow is round our thoughts. Lord Dannis- 
burgh was a man of ministerial tact, official ability, Pagan 
morality; an excellent general manager, if no genius in 
statecraft. But he was careless of social opinion, unbut- 
toned, and a laugher. We know that he could be chival- 
rous toward women, notwithstanding the perplexities he 
brought on them, and this the Dorset-Diary does not 
show. 

His chronicle is less mischievous as regards Mrs. Warwick 
than the paragraphs of Perry Wilkinson, a gossip present- 
ing an image of perpetual chatter, like the waxen-faced 
street advertizements of light and easy dentistry. He has 
no belief, no disbelief; names the pro-party and the con; 


6 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


recites the case, and discreetly, over-discreetly ; and pic- 
tures the trial, tells the ?Lat of witnesses, records the ver- 
dict: so the case weal, .ind some thought one thing, some 
another thing: only it is reported for positive that a min- 
iature of the incriminated lady was cleverly smuggled over 
to the jury, and juries sitting upon these cases, ever since 
their bedazzlement by Phryne, as you know. . . . And 
then he relates an anecdote of the husband, said to have 
been not a bad fellow before he married his Diana; — and 
the naming of the Goddess reminds him that the second 
person in the indictment is now everywhere called ‘ The 
elderly shepherd;’ — but immediately after the bridal bells 
this husband became sour and insupportable; and either 
she had the trick of putting him publicly in the wrong, or 
he lost all shame in playing the churlish domestic tyrant. 
The instances are incredible of a gentleman. Perry Wil- 
kinson gives us two or three; one on the authority of a 
personal friend who witnessed the scene; at the Warwick 
whist-table, where the fair Diana would let loose her sil- 
very laugh in the intervals. She was hardly out of hei 
teens, and should have been dancing instead of fastened to 
a table. A difference of fifteen years in the ages of the 
wedded pair accounts poorly for the husband’s conduct, 
however solemn a business the game of whist. We read 
that he burst out at last, with bitter mimicry, “yang — 
yang — yang ! ” and killed the bright laugh, shot it dead. 
She had outraged the decorum of the square-table only 
while the cards were making. Perhaps her too-dead ensu- 
ing silence, as of one striving to bring back the throbs to 
a slain bird in her bosom, allowed the gap between the 
wedded pair to be visible, for it was dated back to prophecy 
as soon as the trumpet proclaimed it. 

But a multiplication of similar instances, which can 
serve no other purpose than that of an apology, is a mis- 
erable vindication of innocence. The more we have of 
them the darker the inference. In delicate situations the 
chatterer is noxious. Mrs. Warwick had numerous apol- 
ogists. Those trusting to her perfect rectitude were rarer. 
The liberty she allowed herself in speech and action must 
have been trying to her defenders in a land like ours ; for 
here, and able to throw its shadow on our giddy upper- 


OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS 


t 


circle, the rigour of the game of life, relaxed though it 
may sometimes appear, would satisfy the staidest whist- 
player. She did not wish it the reverse, even when claim- 
ing a space for laughter: “the breath of her soul,” as she 
called it, and as it may be felt in the early youth of a 
lively nature. She, especially, with her multitude of 
quick perceptions and imaginative avenues, her rapid sum- 
maries, her sense of the comic, demanded this aerial 
freedom. 

We have it from Perry Wilkinson that the union of the 
divergent couple was likened to another union always in a 
Court of Law. There- was a distinction; most analogies 
will furnish one; and here we see England and Ireland 
changing their parts, until later, after the breach, when 
the Englishman and Irishwoman resumed a certain resem- 
blance to the yoked Islands. 

Henry Wilmers, I have said, deals exclusively with 
the wit and charm of the woman. He treats the scandal 
as we might do in like manner if her story had not to be 
told. But these are not reporting columns; very little of 
it shall trouble them. The position is faced, and that is 
all. The position is one of the battles incident to women, 
their hardest. It asks for more than justice from men, for 
generosity, our civilization not being yet of the purest. 
That cry of hounds at her disrobing by Law is instinctive. 
She runs, and they give tongue; she is a creature of the 
^hase. Let her escape unmangled,, it will pass in the 
/ecord that she did once publicly run, and some old dogs 
will persist in thinking her cunninger than the virtuous, 
which never put themselves in such positions, but ply the 
distaff at home. Never should reputation of woman trail 
a scent! How true! and true also that the women of wax- 
work never do; and that the women of happy marriages 
do not; nor the women of holy nunneries; nor the women 
lucky in their arts. It is a test of the civilized to see and 
hear, and add no yapping to the spectacle. 

Thousands have reflected on a Diarist’s power to cancel 
our Burial Service. Not alone the cleric’s good work is 
upset by him, but the sexton’s as well. He howks the 
graves, and transforms the quiet worms, busy on a single 
poor peaceable body, into winged serpents that disorder 


3 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


sky and earth with a deadly flight of zig-zags, like mili- 
tary rockets, among the living. And if these are given to 
cry too much, to have their tender sentiments considered, 
it cannot be said that History requires the flaying of them. 
A gouty Diarist, a sheer gossip Diarist, may thus, in the 
bequest of a trail of reminiscences, explode our temples 
(for our very temples have powder in store), our treasuries, 
our homesteads, alive with dynamitic stuff; nay, discon- 
cert our inherited veneration, dislocate the intimate con- 
nexion between the tugged flaxen forelock and a title. 

No similar blame is incurred by Henry Wilmers. No 
blame whatever, one would say, if he had been less copious, 
or not so subservient, in recording the lady’s utterances; 
for though the wit of a woman may be terse, quite spon- 
taneous, as this lady’s assuredly was here and there, she 
is apt to spin it out of a museful mind, at her toilette, or 
by the lonely fire, and sometimes it is imitative; admirers 
should beware of holding it up to the withering glare of 
print: she herself, quoting an obscure maxim-monger, says 
of these lapidary sentences, that they have merely “ the 
value of chalk-eggs, which lure the thinker to sit,” and tempt 
the vacuous to strain for the like, one might add; besides 
flattering the world to imagine itself richer than it is in 
eggs that are golden. Henry Wilmers notes a multitude 
of them. “ The talk fell upon our being creatures of habit, 
and how far it was good: She said: — It is there that we 
see ourselves crutched between love grown old and indif- 
ference ageing to love.” Critic ears not present at the 
conversation catch an echo of maxims and aphorisms over- 
channel, notwithstanding a feminine thrill in the irony of 
“ ageing to love.” The quotation ranks rather among the 
testimonies to her charm. 

She is fresher when speaking of the war of the sexes. 
For one sentence out of many, though we find it to be but 
the clever literary clothing of a common accusation : — 
“ Men may have rounded Seraglio Point : they have not yet 
doubled Cape Turk.” 

It is war, and on the male side, Ottoman war. her 
experience reduced her to think so positively. Her main 
personal experience was in the social class which is prim* 
itively venatorial still, canine under its polish. 


OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS 


9 


She held a brief for her beloved Ireland. She closes a 
discussion upon Irish agitation by saying rather neatly: 
“ You have taught them it is English as well as common 
human nature to feel an interest in the dog that has bitten 
you.” 

The dog periodically puts on madness to win attention; 
we gather then that England, in an angry tremour, tries 
him with water-gruel to prove him sane. 

Of the Irish priest (and she was not of his retinue), 
when he was deemed a revolutionary, Henry Wilmers notes 
her saying: “Be in tune with him; he is in the key-note 
for harmony. He is shepherd, doctor, nurse, comforter, 
anecdotist and fun-maker to his poor flock; and you won- 
der they see the burning gateway of their heaven in him? 
Conciliate the priest.” 

It has been partly done, done late, when the poor flock 
have found their doctoring and shepherding at other hands: 
their “ bulb-food and fiddle,” that she petitioned for, to keep 
them from a complete shaving oft’ their patch of bog and 
scrub soil, without any perception of the tremendous trans- 
atlantic magnification of the fiddle, and the splitting dis- 
cord of its latest inspiriting jig. 

And she will not have the consequences of the “ weariful 
old Irish duel between Honour and Hunger judged by 
bread and butter juries.” 

She had need to be beautiful to be tolerable in days 
when Englishmen stood more openly for the strong arm to 
maintain the Union. Her troop of enemies was of hei 
summoning. 

Ordinarily her topics were of wider range, and those of 
a woman who mixed hearing with reading, and obser- 
vation with her musings. She has no doleful ejaculatory 
notes, of the kind peculiar to women at war, containing 
one-third of speculative substance to two of sentimental 
— a feminine plea for comprehension and a squire; and it 
was probably the reason (as there is no reason to suppose 
an emotional cause) why she exercised her evident sway 
over the mind of so plain and straightforward an English- 
man as Henry Wilmers. She told him that she read 
rapidly, “a great deal at one gulp,” and thought in flashes 
. — a way with the makers of phrases. She wrote, she con* 


10 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


fessed, laboriously. The desire to prune, compress, over- 
charge, was a torment to the nervous woman writing under 
a sharp necessity for payment. Her songs were shot off 
on the impulsion; prose was the heavy task. “To be 
pointedly rational,” she said, “is a greater difficulty for 
me than a fine delirium.” She did not talk as if it would 
have been so, he remarks. One is not astonished at her 
appearing an “actress” to the flat-minded. But the basis 
of her woman’s nature was pointed flame. In the fulness 
of her history we perceive nothing histrionic. Capricious 
or enthusiastic in her youth, she never trifled with feel- 
ing; and if she did so with some showy phrases and occa- 
sionally proffered commonplaces in gilt, as she was much 
excited to do, her moods of reflection were direct, always 
large and honest, universal as well as feminine. 

Her saying that “A woman in the pillory restores the 
original bark of brotherhood to mankind,” is no more than 
a cry of personal anguish. She has golden apples in her 
apron. She says of life: “ When I fail to cherish it in 
every fibre the fires within are waning ,” and that drives 
like rain to the roots. She says of the world, generously, 
if with tapering idea: “From the point of vision of the 
angels, this ugly monster, only half out of slime, must 
appear our one constant hero.” 

It can be read maliciously, but abstain. 

She says of Romance: ” The young who avoid that region 
escape the title of Fool at the cost of a celestial crown.” Of 
Poetry : “ Those that have souls meet their fellows there.” 

But she would have us away with sentimentalism. Sen- 
timental people, in her phrase, “ fiddle harmonics on the 
strings of sensualism to the delight of a world gaping 
for marvels of musical execution rather than for music. 
For our world is all but a sensational world at present, in 
maternal travail of a soberer, a braver, a brighter-eyed. 
Her reflections are thus to be interpreted, it seems to me. 
She says, “The vices of the world’s nobler half in this day 
are feminine.” We have to guard against “ half-conceptions 
of wisdom, hysterical goodness, an impatient charity ” — 
against the elementary state of the altruistic virtues, dis- 
tinguishable as the sickness and writhings of our egoism to 
cast its first slough. Idea is there. The funny part of it 


OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS 


n 


is our finding it in books of fiction composed for payment. 
Manifestly this lady did not “chameleon” her pen from 
the colour of her audience : she was not of the uniformed 
rank and file marching to drum and" fife as gallant inter- 
preters of popular appetite, and going or gone to sound- 
lessness and the icy shades. 

Touches inward are not absent: “To have the sense of 
the eternal in life is a short flight for the soul. To have 
bad it, is the soul’s vitality.” 

And also : “ Palliation of a sin is the hunted creature’s 
refuge and final temptation. Our battle is ever between 
spirit and flesh. Spirit must brand the flesh, that it may 
live.” 

You are entreated to repress alarm. She was by prefer- 
ence light-handed; and her saying of oratory, that “It is 
always the more impressive for the spice of temper which 
, renders it untrustworthy ,” is light enough. 

On Politics she is rhetorical and swings : she wrote to 
spur a junior politician: “It is the first business of men, 
the school to mediocrity, to the covetously ambitious a 
sty, to the dullard his amphitheatre, arms of Titans to the 
desperately enterprising, Olympus to the genius.” 

What a woman thinks of women, is the test of her 
nature. She saw their existing posture clearly, yet be- 
lieved, as men disincline to do, that they grow. She says 
that “In their judgements upon women men are females, 
voices of the present (sexual) dilemma.” They desire to 
have “ a still woman , who can make a constant society of 
her pins and needles.” They create by stoppage a volcano, 
and are amazed at its eruptiveness. “We live alone, and 
do not much feel it till we are visited.” Love is presume- 
ably the visitor. Of the greater loneliness of women, she 
says : “ It is due to the prescribed circumscription of their 
minds, of which they become aware in agitation. Were 
the walls about them beaten down, they would understand 
that solitariness is a common human fate and the one 
chance of growth, like space for timber.” As to the sen- 
sations of women after the beating down of the walls, she 
owns that the multitude of the timorous would yearn in 
shivering affright for the old prison-nest, according to the 
sage prognostic of men; but the flying of a valiant few 


12 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


would form a vanguard. And we are informed that the 
beginning of a motive life with women must be in the 
head, equally with men (by no means a truism when she 
wrote). Also that “men do not so much fear to lose the 
hearts of thoughtful women as their strict attention to 
their graces.” The present market is what men are for 
preserving: an observation of still reverberating force. 
Generally in her character of the feminine combatant there 
is a turn of phrase, like a dimple near the lips, showing 
her knowledge that she was uttering but a tart measure of 
the truth. She had always too much lambent humour to 
be the dupe of the passion wherewith, as she says, “we 
lash ourselves into the persuasive speech distinguishing 
us from the animals.” 

The instances of her drollery are rather hinted by the 
Diarists for the benefit of those who had met her and could 
inhale the atmosphere at a word. Drolleries, humours, 
reputed witticisms, are like odours of roast meats, past 
with the picking of the joint. Idea is the only vital 
-breath. They have it rarely, or it eludes the chronicler. 
To say of the great erratic and forsaken Lady A****, after 
she had accepted the consolations of Bacchus, that her 
name was properly signified in asterisks; “as she was now 
nightly an Ariadne in heaven through her God,” sounds to 
us a roundabout, with wit somewhere and fun nowhere. 
Sitting at the roast we might have thought differently. 
Perry Wilkinson is not happier in citing her reply to his 
compliment on the reviewers’ unanimous eulogy of her 
humour and pathos : — the “ merry clown and poor panta- 
loon demanded of us in every work of fiction,” she says, 
lamenting the writer’s compulsion to go on producing them 
for applause until it is extremest age that knocks their 
knees. We are informed by Lady Pennon of “the most 
amusing description of the first impressions of a pretty 
English simpleton in Paris;” and here is an opportunity 
for ludicrous contrast of the French and English styles of 
pushing flatteries — “piping to the charmed animal,” as 
Mrs. Warwick terms it in another place: but Lady Pennon 
was acquainted with the silly woman of the piece, and 
found her amusement in the “ wonderful truth ” of that 
representation. 


OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS 


13 


Diarists of amusing passages are under an obligation 
to paint us a realistic revival of the time, or we miss the 
relish. The odour of the roast, and more, a slice of it is 
required, unless the humorous thing be preternaturally 
spirited to walk the earth as one immortal among a num- 
ber less numerous than the mythic Gods. “ He gives good 
dinners,” a candid old critic said, when asked how it was 
that he could praise a certain poet. In an island of chills 
and fogs, coelum crebris imbribus ac nebulis foedum, the 
comic and other perceptions are dependent on the stirring 
of the gastric juices. And such a revival by any of us 
would be impolitic, were it a possible attempt^ before our 
systems shall have been fortified by philosophy. Then 
may it be allowed to the Diarist simply to relate, and we 
can copy from him. 

Then, ah! then, moreover, will the novelist’s Art, now 
neither blushless infant nor executive man, have attained 
its majority. We can then be veraciously historical, 
honestly transcriptive. Kose-pink and dirty drab will 
alike have passed away. Philosophy is the foe of both, 
and their silly cancelling contest, perpetually renewed in 
a shuffle of extremes, as it always is where a phantasm 
falseness reigns, will no longer baffle the contemplation of 
natural flesh, smother no longer the soul issuing out of our 
incessant strife. Philosophy bids us to see that we are 
not so pretty as rose-pink, not so repulsive as dirty drab; 
and that instead of everlastingly shifting those barren 
aspects, the sight of ourselves is wholesome, bearable, 
fructifying, finally a delight. Do but perceive that we are 
coming to philosophy, the stride toward it will be a giant’s 

— a century a day. And imagine the celestial refresh- 
ment of having a pure decency in the place of sham ; real 
flesh; a soul born active, wind-beaten, but ascending. 
Honourable will fiction then appear; honourable, a fount 
of life, an aid to life, quick with our blood. Why, when 
you behold it you love it — and you will not encourage it? 

— or only when presented by dead hands? Worse than 
that alternative dirty drab, your recurring rose-pink is 
rebuked by hideous revelations of the filthy foul; for 
nature will force her way, and if you try to stifle her by 
drowning, she comes up, not the fairest part of her upper' 


14 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


most! Peruse your Realists — really your castigators foi 
not having yet embraced Philosophy. As she grows in 
the flesh when discreetly tended, nature is unimpeachable, 
flower-like, yet not too decoratively a flower j you must 
have her with the stem, the thorns, the roots, and the fat 
bedding of roses. In this fashion she grew, says histor- 
ical fiction; thus does she flourish now, would say the 
modern transcript, reading the inner as well as exhibiting 
the outer. 

And how may you know that you have reached to Phi- 
losophy? You touch her skirts when you share her hatred 
of the sham decent, her derision of sentimentalism. You 
are one with her when — but I would not have you a thou- 
sand years older! Get to her, if in no other way, by the 
sentimental route: — that very winding path, which again 
and again brings you round to the point of original impetus, 
where you have to be unwound for another whirl; your 
point of original impetus being the grossly material, not 
at all the spiritual. It is most true that sentimentalism 
springs from the former, merely and badly aping the latter; 
— fine flower, or pinnacle flame-spire, of sensualism that 
it is, could it do other? — and accompanying the former it 
traverses tracts of desert, here and there couching in a 
garden, catching with one hand at fruits, with another at 
colours; imagining a secret ahead, and goaded by an appe- 
tite, sustained by sheer gratifications. Fiddle in har- 
monics as it may, it will have these gratifications at all 
costs. Should none be discoverable, at once you are at 
the Cave of Despair, beneath the funereal orb of Glaucoma, 
in the thick midst of poniarded, slit-throat, rope-dependent 
figures, placarded across the bosom Disillusioned, Infidel, 
Agnostic, Miserrimus. That is the sentimental route to 
advancement. Spirituality does not light it; evanescent 
dreams are its oil-lamps, often with wick askant in the 
socket. 

A thousand years! You may count full many a thou- 
sand by this route before you are one with divine Philos- 
ophy. Whereas a single flight of brains will reach and 
embrace her; give you the savour of Truth, the right use 
of the senses, Reality’s infinite sweetness; for these things 
are in philosophy; and the fiction which is the summary 


OF DIARIES AND DIARISTS 


15 


of actual Life, the within and without of us, is, prose or 
verse, plodding or soaring, philosophy’s elect handmaiden. 
To such an end let us bend our aim to work, knowing that 
every form of labour, even this flimsiest, as you esteem it, 
should minister to growth. If in any branch of us we fail 
in growth, there is, you are aware, an unfailing aboriginal 
democratic old monster that waits to pull us down; cer- 
tainly the branch, possibly the tree; and for the welfare 
of Life we fall. You are acutely conscious of yonder old 
monster when he is mouthing at you in politics. Be wary 
of him in the heart; especially be wary of the disrelish of 
brainstuff. You must feed on something. Matter that is 
not nourishing to brains can help to constitute nothing but 
the bodies which are pitched on rubbish heaps. Brainstuff 
is not lean stuff; the brainstuff of fiction is internal his- 
tory, and to suppose it dull is the profoundest of errors ; 
how deep, you will understand when I tell you that it is 
the very football of the holiday-afternoon imps below. 
They kick it for pastime; they are intelligences perverted. 
The comic of it, the adventurous, the tragic, they make 
devilish, to kindle their Ogygian hilarity. But sharply 
comic, adventurous, instructively tragic, it is in the inter* 
winding with human affairs, to give a flavour of the modern 
day reviving that of our Poet, between whom and us yawn 
Time’s most hollow jaws. Surely we owe a little to Time, 
to cheer his progress; a little to posterity, and to oui 
country. Dozens of writers will be in at yonder yawn- 
ing breach, if only perusers will rally to the philosophic 
standard. They are sick of the woodeny puppetry the) 
dispense, as on a race-course to the roaring frivolous 
Well, if not dozens, half-dozens; gallant pens are alive, N 
one can speak of them in the plural. I venture to say that; 
they would be satisfied with a dozen for audience, for a 
commencement. They would perish of inanition, unfed, 
unapplauded, amenable to the laws perchance lor an assault 
on their last remaining pair of ears or heels, to hold them 
fast. But the example is the thing; sacrifices must be 
expected. The example might, one hopes, create a taste. 
A great modern writer, of clearest eye and head, now de- 
parted, capable in activity of presenting thoughtful women, 
thinking men, groaned over his puppetry, that he dared 


16 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


not animate them, flesh though they were, with the fires 
of positive brainstuff. He could have done it, and he is 
of the departed! Had he dared, he would (for he was 
Titan enough) have raised the Art in dignity on a level 
with History, to an interest surpassing the narrative of 
public deeds as vividly as man’s heart and brain in 
their union excel his plain lines of action to eruption. 
The everlasting pantomime, suggested by Mrs. Warwick 
in her exclamation to Perry Wilkinson, is derided, not 
unrighteously, by our graver seniors. They name this 
Art the pasture of idiots, a method for idiotizing the entire 
population which has taken to reading; and which soon 
discovers that it can write likewise, that sort of stuff at 
least. The forecast may be hazarded, that if we do not 
speedily embrace Philosophy in fiction, the Art is doomed 
to extinction, under the shining multitude of its profes- 
sors. They are fast capping the candle. Instead, there- 
fore, of objurgating the timid intrusions of Philosophy, 
invoke her presence, I pray you. History without her is 
the skeleton map of events: Fiction a picture of figures 
modelled on no skeleton-anatomy. But each, with Philoso- 
phy in aid, blooms, and is humanly shapely. To demand 
of us truth to nature, excluding Philosophy, is really to 
bid a pumpkin caper. As much as legs are wanted for the 
dance, Philosophy is required to make our human nature 
credible and acceptable. Fiction implores you to heave a 
bigger breast and take her in with this heavenly preserva- 
tive helpmate, her inspiration and her essence. You have 
to teach your imagination of the feminine image you have 
set up to bend your civilized knees to, that it must temper 
its fastidiousness, shun the grossness of the overdainty. 
Or, to speak in the philosophic tongue, you must turn on 
yourself, resolutely track and seize that burrower, and 
scrub and cleanse him; by which process, during the 
course of it, you will arrive at the conception of the right 
heroical woman for you to worship : and if you prove to be 
of some spiritual stature, you may reach to an ideal of the 
heroical feminine type for the worship of mankind, an 
image as yet in poetic outline only, on our upper skies. 

“So well do we know ourselves, that we one and all 
determine to know a purpr,” says the heroine of my 


AN IRISH BALL 


IT 


commns. Philosophy in fiction tells, among various other 
matters, of the perils of this intimate acquaintance with a 
flattering familiar in the “ purer ” — ■ a person who more 
than ceases to be of use to us after his ideal shall have led 
up men from their flint and arrowhead caverns to inter- 
communicative daylight. For when the fictitious creature 
has performed that service of helping to civilize the world, 
it becomes the most dangerous of delusions, causing first 
the individual to despise the mass, and then to join the 
mass in crushing the individual. Wherewith let us to our 
story, the froth being out of the bottle. 


CHAPTER II 

AN IRISH BALL * 

In the Assembly Rooms of the capital city of the Sister 
Island there was a public Ball, to celebrate the return to 
Erin of a British hero of Irish blood, after his victorious 
Indian campaign; a mighty struggle splendidly ended; and 
truly could it be said that all Erin danced to meet him; 
but this was the pick of the dancing, past dispute the pick 
of the supping. Outside those halls the supping was done 
in Lazarus fashion, mainly through an excessive straining 
of the organs of hearing and vision, which imparted the 
readiness for more, declared by physicians to be the state 
inducing to sound digestion. Some one spied the figure of 
tne hero at a window and was fed; some only to hear the 
tale chewed the cud of it; some told of having seen him 
mount the steps; and sure it was that at an hour of the 
night, no matter when, and never mind a drop or two 
of cloud, he would come down them again, and have an 
Irish cheer to freshen his pillow. For His Ireland gives 
England her soldiers, her generals too. Farther away, 
over field and bogland, the whiskies did their excellent an- 
cient service of watering the dry and drying the damp, to 
the toast of “Lord Larrian, God bless him ! he ’s an honour 

Q 


18 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


to the old country!” and a bit of a sigh to follow, hints of 
a story, and loud laughter, a drink, a deeper sigh, settling 
into conversation upon the brave Lord Larrian’s deeds, 
and an Irish regiment he favoured — had no taste for the 
enemy without the backing of his “boys.” Not he. Why, 
he ’d never march to battle and they not handy; because 
when he struck he struck hard, he said. And he has a 
wound on the right hip and two fingers off his left hand; 
has bled for England, to show her what Irishmen are when 
they ’re well treated. 

The fine old warrior standing at the upper end of the 
long saloon, tall, straight, grey-haired, martial in his 
aspect and decorations, was worthy to be the flag-pole for 
enthusiasm. His large grey eyes lightened from time to 
time as he ranged them over the floating couples, and 
dropped a word of inquiry to his aide,. Captain Sir Lukin 
Dunstane, a good model of a cavalry officer, though some- 
what a giant, equally happy with his chief in passing the 
troops of animated ladies under review. He named as 
many as were known to him. Reviewing women exqui* 
sitely attired for inspection, all variously and charmingly 
smiling, is a relief after the monotonous regiments of men. 
Ireland had done her best to present the hero of her blood 
an agreeable change; and he too expressed a patriotic 
satisfaction on hearing that the faces most admired by 
him were of the native isle. He looked upon one that 
came whirling up to him on a young officer’s arm and 
swept off into the crowd of tops, for a considerable while 
before he put his customary question. She was returning 
on the spin when he said, — 

“Who is she?” 

Sir Lukin did not know. “She’s a new bird; she 
nodded to my wife; I ’ll ask.” 

He manoeuvred a few steps cleverly to where his wife 
reposed. The information he gathered for the behoof of 
his chief was, that the handsome creature answered to the 
name of Miss Merion; Irish; aged somewhere between 
eighteen and nineteen; a dear friend of his wife’s, and he 
ought to have remembered her; but she was a child when 
he saw her last. 

“ Dan Merion died , I remember, about the day of my 


AN IRISH BALL 


19 


sailing for India,” said the General. “She may be his 
daughter.” 

The bright cynosure rounded up to him in the web of the 
waltz, with her dark eyes for Lady Dunstane, and vanished 
again among the twisting columns. 

He made his way, handsomely bumped by an apologetic 
pair, to Lady Dunstane, beside whom a seat was vacated for 
him ; and he trusted she had not over-fatigued herself. 

“ Confess,” she replied; “you are perishing to know more 
than Lukin has been able to tell you. Let me hear that you 
admire her : it pleases me ; and you shall hear what will 
please you as much, I promise you, General.” 

“I do. Who would n’t ? ” said he frankly. 

“ She crossed the Channel expressly to dance here to-night 
at the public Ball in honour of you.” 

“ Where she appears, the first person falls to second rank, 
and accepts it humbly.” 

“ That is grandly spoken.” 

“ She makes everything in the room dust round a blazing 
jewel.” 

“ She makes a poet of a soldier. Well, that you may 
understand how pleased I am, she is my dearest friend, 
though she is younger than I, as may be seen ; she is the 
only friend I have. I nursed her when she was an infant ; 
my father and Mr. Dan Merion were chums. We were 
parted by my marriage and the voyage to India. We have 
not yet exchanged a syllable : she was snapped up, of course, 
the moment she entered the room. I knew she would be a 
taking girl: how lovely, I did not guess. You are right, 
she extinguishes the others. She used to be the sprightliest 
of living creatures, and to judge by her letters, that has not 
faded. She ’s in the market, General.” 

Lord Larrian nodded to everything he heard, concluding 
with a mock doleful shake of the head. “ My poorest sub- 
altern! ” he sighed, in the theatrical but cordially melan- 
choly style of green age viewing Cytherea’s market. 

His poorest subaltern was richer than he in the where- 
withal to bid for such prizes. 

“ What is her name in addition to Merion ? ” 

“ Diana Antonia Merion. Tony to me, Diana to the 
world.” 


20 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ She lives over there ? ” 

“ In England, or anywhere ; wherever she is taken in. 
She will live, I hope, chiefly with me.” 

“And honest Irish ? ” 

“ Oh, she ’s Irish.” 

“Ah ! ” the General was Irish to the heels that night. 

Before further could be said the fair object of the dialogue 
came darting on a trip of little runs, both hands out, all her 
face one tender sparkle of a smile ; and her cry proved the 
quality of her blood : “ Emmy! Emmy! my heart ! ” 

“ My dear Tony ! I should not have come but for the 
hope of seeing you here.” 

Lord Larrian rose and received a hurried acknowledgment 
of his courtesy from the usurper of his place. 

“ Emmy ! we might kiss and hug ; we ’re in Ireland. I 
burn to ! But you’re not still ill, dear? Say no! That 
Indian fever must have gone. You do look a dash pale, my 
own ; you ’re tired.” 

“ One dance has tired me. Why were you so late ? ” 

“ To give the others a chance ? To produce a greater 
impression by suspense ? No and no. I wrote you I was 
with the Pettigrews. We caught the coach, we caught the 
boat, we were only two hours late for the Ball ; so we did 
wonders. And good Mrs. Pettigrew is pining somewhere 
to complete her adornment. I was in the crush, spying for 
Emmy, when Mr. Mayor informed me it was the duty of 
every Irishwoman to dance her toes off, if she ’d be known 
for what she is. And twirl ! a man had me by the waist, 
and I dying to find you.” 

“ Who was the man ? ” 

“ Not to save these limbs from the lighted stake could I 
tell you ! ” 

“ You are to perform a ceremonious bow to Lord Larrian.” 

“ Chatter first ! a little ! ” 

The plea for chatter was disregarded. It was visible that 
the hero of the night hung listening and in expectation. 
He and the Beauty were named to one another, and they 
chatted through a quadrille. Sir Lukin introduced a fellow 
Harrovian of old days, Mr. Thomas Bedworth, to his wife. 

“Our weather-prophet, meteorologist,” he remarked, to 
set them going ; “ you remember, in India, my pointing to 


IRISH BALL 21 

you his name in a newspaper-letter on the subject. He was 
generally safe for the cricketing days.” 

Lady Dunstane kindly appeared to call it to mind, and 
she led upon the theme — queried at times by an abrupt 
“ Eh ? ” and “ I beg pardon,” for manifestly his gaze and 
one of his ears, if not the pair, were given to the young lady 
discoursing with Lord Larrian. Beauty is rare ; luckily is 
it rare, or, judging from its effect on men, and the very 
stoutest of them, our world would be internally a more dis- 
tracted planet than we see, to the perversion of business, 
courtesy, rights of property, and the rest. She perceived 
an incipient victim, of the hundreds she anticipated, and 
she very tolerantly talked on : “ The weather and women 
have some resemblance they say. Is it true that he who 
reads the one can read the other ? ” 

Lord Larrian here burst into a brave old laugh, exclaim- 
ing, “ Oh ! good ! ” 

Mr. Redworth knitted his thick brows. " I beg pardon ? 
Ah ! women ! Weather and women ? No ; the one point 
more variable in women makes all the difference.” 

“ Can you tell me what the General laughed at ? ” 

The honest Englishman entered the trap with prompti- 
tude. “ She said : — who is she, may I ask you ? ” 

Lady Dunstane mentioned her name. 

Daughter of the famous Dan Merion ? The young lady 
merited examination for her father’s sake. But when re- 
minded of her laughter-moving speech, Mr. Redworth 
bungled it ; he owned he spoilt it, and candidly stated his 
inability to see the fun. “ She said, St. George’s Channel 
in a gale ought to be called St. Patrick’s — something — I 
missed some point. That quadrille-tune, the Pastourelle, or 
something . . .” 

“ She had experience of the Channel last night,” Lady 
Dunstane pursued, and they both, while in seeming con- 
verse, caught snatches from their neighbours, during a pause 
of the dance. 

The sparkling Diana said to Lord Larrian, “ You 
really decline to make any of us proud women by dancing 
to-night ? ” 

The General answered: “I might do it on two stilts; I 
can’t on one.” He touched his veteran leg. 


22 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“But surely,” said she, “ there ’s always an inspiration 
coming to it from its partner in motion, if one of them 
takes the step.” 

He signified a woeful negative. “ My dear young lady, 
you say dark things to grey hairs ! ” 

She rejoined : “ If we were over in England, and you 
fixed on me tfie stigma of saying dark things, I should 
never speak without being thought obscure.” 

“ It ’s because you flash too brightly for them.” 

“ I think it is rather the reminiscence of the tooth that 
once received a stone when it expected candy.” 

Again the General laughed ; he looked pleased and 
warmed. “ Yes, that ’s their wajq that’s their way ! ” and 
he repeated her words to himself, diminishing their im- 
portance as he stamped them on his memory, but so 
heartily admiring the lovely speaker, that he considered 
her wit an honour to the old country, and told her so, 
Irish prevailed up to boiling-point. 

Lady Dunstane, not less gratified, glanced up at Mr. 
Redworth, whose brows bore the knot of perplexity ovej 
a strong stare. He, too, stamped the words on his memory, 
to see subsequently whether they had a vestige of meaning, 
Terrifically precocious, he thought her. Lady Dunstane, in 
her quick sympathy with her friend, read the adverse mind 
in his face. And her reading of the mind was right, wrong 
altogether her deduction of the corresponding sentiment. 

Music was resumed to confuse the hearing of the eaves- 
droppers. 

They beheld a quaint spectacle : a gentleman, obviously 
an Englishman, approached, with the evident intention of 
reminding the Beauty of the night of her engagement to 
him, and claiming her, as it were, in the lion’s jaws. He 
advanced a foot, withdrew it, advanced, withdrew ; eager 
for his prize, not over enterprising ; in awe of the illus- 
trious General she entertained — presumeably quite un- 
aware of the pretender’s presence ; whereupon a. voice was 
heard : “ Oh ! if it was minuetting you meant before the 
lady, I ’& never have disputed your right to perform, sir.” 
For it seemed that there were two claimants in the field, 
an Irishman and an Englishman ; and the former, having 
a livelier sense of the situation, hung aloof in waiting for 


AN IRISH BALL 


23 


her eye ; the latter directed himself to strike bluntly at 
his prey ; and he continued minuetting, now rapidly blink- 
ing, flushed, angry, conscious of awkwardness and a tangle 
incapable of extrication. He began to blink horribly under 
the raillery of his rival. The General observed him, but 
as an object remote and minute, a fly or gnat. The face 
of the brilliant Diana was entirely devoted to him she 
amused. 

Lady Dunstane had the faint lines of a decorous laugh 
on her lips, as she said ; “ How odd it is that our men 
show to such disadvantage in a Ball-room. I have seem 
them in danger, and there they shine first of any, and one 
is proud of them. They should always be facing the ele- 
ments or in action.” She glanced at the minuet, which 
had become a petrified figure, still palpitating, bent for- 
ward, an interrogative reminder. 

Mr. Redworth reserved his assent to the proclamation of 
any English disadvantage. A whiff of Celtic hostility in 
the atmosphere put him on his mettle. “ Wherever the 
man is tried,” he said. 

“My lady l” the Irish gentleman bowed to Lady Dun- 
stane. “ I had the honour . . . Sullivan Smith ... at the 
castle ...” 

She responded to the salute, and Mr. Sullivan Smith 
proceeded to tell her, half in speech, half in dots most 
luminous, of a civil contention between the English gentle- 
man and himself, as to the possession of the loveliest of 
partners for this particular ensuing dance, and that they 
had simultaneously made a rush from the Lower Courts, 
namely, their cards, to the Upper, being the lady ; and 
Mr. Sullivan Smith partly founded his preferable claim on 
her Irish descent, and on his acquaintance with her eminent 
defunct father — one of the ever-radiating stars of his 
quenchless country. 

Lady Dunstane sympathized with him for his not intrud- 
ing his claim when the young lady stood pre-engaged, as 
well as in humorous appreciation of his imaginative logic. 

“There will be dancing enough after supper,” she said. 

“ If I could score one dance with her, I ’d go home 
supperless and feasted,” said he. “ And that ’s not saying 
much among the hordes of hungry troopers tip-toe for the 


24 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


signal to the buffet. See, my lady, the gentleman, as we 
call him ; there he is working his gamut perpetually up to da 
capo. Oh ! but it ’s a sheep trying to be wolf ; he ’s sheep- 
eyed and he ’s wolf-fanged, pathetic and larcenous ! Oh, 
now! who’d believe it! — the man has dared ... I ’d as 
soon think of committing sacrilege in a cathedral ! ” 

The man was actually, to quote his indignant rival, 
° breaching the fortress,” and pointing out to Diana Merion 
" her name on his dirty scrap of paper”: a shocking sight 
when the lady’s recollection was the sole point to be aimed 
at, and the only umpire. “ As if all of us could n’t have 
written that, and had n’t done it ! ” Mr. Sullivan Smith 
groaned disgusted. He hated bad manners, particularly in 
cases involving ladies ; and the bad manners of a Saxon 
fired his antagonism to the race ; individual members of 
w r hich he boasted of forgiving and embracing, honouring. 
So the man blackened the race for him, and the race was 
excused in the man. But his hatred of bad manners was 
vehement, and would have extended to a fellow-country- 
man. His ow T n were of the antecedent century, therefore 
venerable. 

Diana turned from her pursuer with a comic woeful lift- 
ing of the brows at her friend. Lady Dunstane motioned 
her fan, and Diana came, bending head. 

“ Are you bound in honour ? ” 

“I don’t think I am. And I do want to go on talking 
with the General. He is so delightful and modest — my 
dream of a true soldier ! — telling me of his last big battle, 
bit by bit, to my fishing.” 

“Put off this person for a square dance down the list, 
and take out Mr. Red worth — Miss Diana Merion, Mr. 
Bedworth : he will bring you back to the General, who 
must not totally absorb you, or he will forfeit his 
popularity.” 

Diana instantly struck a treaty with the pertinacious 
advocate of his claims, to whom, on his relinquishing her, 
Mr. Sullivan Smith remarked: “Oh! sir, the law of it, 
where a lady’s concerned! You’re one for evictions, I 
should guess, and the anti-human process. It ’s that letter 
of the law that stands between you and me and mine aud 
yours. But you ’ve got your congee, and my blessing 
on ye * ” 


AN IRISH BALL 


25 


“It was a positive engagement” said the enemy. 

Mr. Sullivan Smith derided him. “ And a pretty partner 
you’ve pickled for yourself when she keeps her positive 
engagement ! ” 

He besought Lady Dunstane to console him with a turn. 
She pleaded weariness. He proposed to sit beside her and 
divert her. She smiled, but warned him that she was Eng- 
lish in every vein. He interjected : “ Irish men and Eng- 
lish women ! though it ’s putting the cart before the horse 
— the copper pennies where the gold guineas should be. 
So here’s the gentleman who takes the oyster, like the 
lawyer of the fable. English is he ? But we read, the 
last shall be first. And English women and Irish men 
make the finest coupling in the universe.” 

“ Well, you must submit to see an Irish woman led out 
by an English man,” said Lady Dunstane, at the same time 
informing the obedient Diana, then bestowing her hand 
on Mr. Ked worth to please her friend, that he was a 
schoolfellow of her husband’s. 

“ Favour can’t help coming by rotation, except in very 
extraordinary circumstances, and he was ahead of me with 
you, and takes my due, and ’t would be hard on me if I 
were n’t thoroughly indemnified.” Mr. Sullivan Smith 
bowed. “ You gave them just the start over the frozen 
minute for conversation : they were total strangers, and he 
does n’t appear a bad sort of fellow for a temporary mate, 
though he ’s not perfectly sure of his legs. And that we ’ll 
excuse to any man leading out such a fresh young beauty of 
a Bright Eyes — like the stars of a winter’s night in the 
frosty season over Columkill, or where you will, so that ’s 
in Ireland, to bo sure of the likeness to her.” 

“ Her mother was half English.” 

“ Of course she was. And what was my observation 
about the coupling ? Dan Merion would make her Irish all 
over. And she has a vein of Spanish blood in her ; for he 
had ; and she ’s got the colour. — But you spoke of their 
coupling — or I did. Oh, a man can hold his own with an 
English roly-poly mate : he ’s not stifled. But a woman 
has n’t his power of resistance to dead weight. She ’s 
volatile, she ’s frivolous, a rattler and gabbler — have n’t I 
heard what they say of Irish girls over there ? She marries, 


26 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


and it's the end of her sparkling. She must choose at 
home for a perfect harmonious partner.” 

Lady Dunstane expressed her opinion that her couple 
danced excellently together. 

“ It ’d be a bitter thing to see, if the fellow could n’t dance, 
after leading her out ! ” sighed Mr. Sullivan Smith. “ I 
heard of her over there. They call her the Black Pearl, 
and the Irish Lily — because she ’s dark. They rack their 
poor brains to get the laugh of us.” 

“ And I listen to you,” said Lady Dunstane. 

“ Ah ! if all England, half, a quarter, the smallest piece 
of the land were like you, my lady, I ’d be loyal to the 
finger-nails. Now, is she engaged ? — when I get a word 
with her ? ” 

“ She is nineteen, or nearly, and she ought to have five 
good years of freedom, I think.” 

“ And five good years of serfdom I ’d serve to win her! ” 

A look at him under the eyelids assured Lady Dunstane 
that there would be small chance for Mr. Sullivan Smith, 
after a life of bondage, if she knew her Diana, in spite of 
his tongue, his tact, his lively features and breadth of 
shoulders. 

Up he sprang. Diana was on Mr. Bedworth’s arm. 
“No refreshments,” she said; and “this is my refresh- 
ment,” taking the seat of Mr. Sullivan Smith, who 
ejaculated, — 

“I must go and have that gentleman’s name.” He 
wanted a foe. 

“ You know you are ready to coquette with the General 
at any moment, Tony,” said her friend. 

“Yes, with the General! ” 

“ He is a noble old man.” 

“ Superb. And don’t say * old man. * With his uniform 
and his height and his grey head, he is like a glorious 
October day just before the brown leaves fall.” 

Diana hummed a little of the air of Planxty Kelly, the 
favourite of her childhood, as Lady Dunstane well remem- 
bered, and they smiled together at the scenes and times it 
recalled. 

“Do you still write verses, Tony?” 

“ I could about him. At one part of the fight he thought 


AN IRISH BALL 


27 


he would be beaten. He was overmatched in artillery, 
and it was a cavalry charge he thundered on them, riding 
across the field to give the word of command to the couple 
of regiments, riddled to threads, that gained the day. 
That is life — when we dare death to live! I wonder at 
men, who are men , being anything but soldiers! I told 
you, madre, my own Emmy, I forgave you for marrying, 
because it was a soldier.” 

“Perhaps a soldier is to be the happy man. But you 
have not told me a word of yourself. What has been done 
with the old Crossways?” 

“The house, you know, is mine. And it ’s all I have: 
ten acres and the house, furnished, and let for less than 
two hundred a year. Oh ! how I long to evict the tenants ! 
They can’t have my feeling for the place where I was 
born. They ’re people of tolerably good connections, 
middling wealthy, I suppose, of the name of Warwick, 
and, as far as I can understand, they stick there to be 
near the Sussex Downs, for a nephew, who likes to ride 
on them. I’ve a half engagement, barely legible, to visit 
them on an indefinite day, and can’t bear the idea of 
strangers masters in the old house. I must be driven 
there for shelter, for a roof, some month. And I could 
make a pilgrimage in rain or snow just to doat on the 
outside of it. That’s your Tony.” 

“She ’s my darling.” 

“I hear myself speak! But your voice or mine, ma,dre, 
it ’s one soul. Be sure I am giving up the ghost when I 
cease to be one soul with you, dear and dearest! No 
secrets, never a shadow of a deception, or else I shall feel 
I am not fit to live. Was I a bad correspondent when you 
were in India? ” 

Pretty well. Copious letters when you did write.” 

“ I was shy. I knew I should be writing to Emmy and 
another, and only when I came to the flow could I forget 
him. He is very finely built; and I dare say he has a 
head. I read of his deeds in India and quivered. But he 
was just a bit in the way. Men are the barriers to perfect 
naturalness, at least, with girls, I think. You wrote to 
me in the same tone as ever, and at first I had a struggle 
to reply. And I. who have such pride in being always 
myselfi” 


28 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Two staring semi-circles had formed, one to front the 
Hero, the other the Beauty. These half moons impercepti- 
bly dissolved to replenish, and became a fixed obstruction. 

“ Yes, they look,” Diana made answer to Lady Dunstane’s 
comment on the curious impertinence. She was getting 
used to it, and her friend had a gratification in seeing how 
little this affected her perfect naturalness. 

“You are often in the world — dinners, dances?” she 
said. 

“People are kind.” 

“ Any proposals? ” 

“Nibbles.” 

“Quite heart-free?” 

“Absolutely.” 

Diana’s unshadowed bright face defied all menace of an 
eclipse. 

The block of sturdy gazers began to melt. The General 
had dispersed his group of satellites by a movement with 
the Mayoress on his arm, construed as the signal for pro- 
cession to the supper-table. 


CHAPTER III 

THE INTERIOR OF MR. REDWORTH AND THE EXTERIOR 
OF MR. SULLIVAN SMITH 

“ It may be as well to take Mr. Redworth’s arm; you will 
escape the crush for you,” said Lady Dunstane to Diana. 
“I don’t sup. Yes! go! You must eat, and he is handi- 
est to conduct you.” 

Diana thought of her chaperon and the lateness of the 
hour. She murmured, to soften her conscience, “Poor 
Mrs. Pettigrew!” 

And once more Mr. Redworth, outwardly imperturbable, 
was in the maelstrom of a happiness resembling tempest. 
He talked, and knew not what he uttered. To give this 
matchless girl the best to eat and drink was his business, 
and he performed it. Oddly, for a man who had no loaded 


MR. REDWORTH AND MR. SULLIVAN SMITH 29 

design, marshalling the troops in his active and capacious 
cranium, he fell upon calculations of his income, present 
and prospective, while she sat at the table and he stood 
behind her. Others were wrangling for places, chairs, 
plates, glasses, game-pie, champagne: she had them; the 
lady under his charge to a certainty would have them; so 
far good; and he had seven hundred pounds per annum 
— seven hundred and fifty, in a favourable aspect, at a 
stretch. . . . 

“ Yes, the pleasantest thing to me after working all day 
is an opera of Carini’s,” he said, in full accord with her 
taste, “and Tellio for tenor, certainly. ” 

— ■ A. fair enough sum for a bachelor: four hundred per- 
sonal income, and a prospect of higher dividends to 
increase it; three hundred odd from his office, and no 
immediate prospects of an increase there; no one died 
there, no elderly martyr for the advancement of his juniors 
could be persuaded to die; they were too tough to think of 
retiring. Say, seven hundred and fifty. . . . eight hun- 
dred, if the commerce of the country fortified the Bank 
his property was embarked in; or eight-fifty: or nine, 
ten. . . . 

“I could call him my poet also,” Mr. Red worth agreed 
with her taste in poets. “ His letters are among the best 
ever written — or ever published: the raciest English I 
know. Frank, straight out: capital descriptions. The 
best English letter-writers are as good as the French — 
You don’t think so? — in their way, of course. I dare say 
we don’t sufficiently cultivate the art. We require the 
supple tongue a closer intercourse of society gives.” 

— Eight or ten hundred. Comfortable enough for a man 
in chambers. To dream of entering as a householder on 
that sum, in these days, would be stark nonsense : and a 
man two removes from a baronetcy has no right to set his 
reckoning on deaths : — if he does, he becomes a sort of 
meditative assassin. But what were the Fates about when 
they planted a man of the ability of Tom Redworth in a 
Government office! Clearly they intended him to remain 
a bachelor for life. And they sent him over to Ireland 
on inspection duty for a month to have sight of an Irish 
Beauty. . . . 


30 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“Think war the finest subject for poets?” he exclaimed. 
•‘Flatly no: I don’t think it. I think exactly the reverse. 
It brings out the noblest traits in human character? I 
won’t own that even. It brings out some: but under 
excitement, when you have not always the real man. — 
Pray don’t sneer at domestic life. Well, there was a sus- 
picion of disdain. — Yes, I can respect the hero, military 
or civil; with this distinction, that the military hero aims 
at personal reward — ” 

“ He braves wounds and death,” interposed Diana. 

“ Whereas the civilian hero — ” 

“ Pardon me, let me deny that the soldier-hero aims at a 
personal reward,” she again interposed. 

“ He gets it.” 

“ If he is not beaten.” 

“And then he is no longer a hero.” 

“ He is to me.” 

She had a woman’s inveterate admiration of the profes- 
sion of arms. Mr. Redworth endeavoured to render prac- 
ticable an opening in her mind to reason. He admitted 
the grandeur of the poetry of Homer. We are a few cen- 
turies in advance of Homer. We do not slay damsels for 
a sacrifice to propitiate celestial wrath; nor do we revel in 
details of slaughter. He reasoned with her; he repeated 
stories known to him of civilian heroes, and won her assent 
to the heroical title for their deeds, but it was languid, or 
not so bright as the deeds deserved — or as the young lady 
could look; and he insisted on the civilian hero, impelled 
by some unconscious motive to make her see the thing he 
thought, also the thing he was — his plain mind and matter- 
of-fact nature. Possibly she caught a glimpse of that. 
After a turn of fencing, in which he was impressed by 
the vibration of her tones when speaking of military 
heroes, she quitted the table, saying: “An argument be- 
tween one at supper and another handing plates, is rather 
unequal if eloquence is needed. As Pat said to the con- 
stable when his hands were tied, you beat me with the 
fists, but my spirit is towering and kicks freely.” 

— Eight hundred? a thousand a year, two thousand, are 
as nothing in the calculation of a householder who means 
that the mistress of the house shall have the choicest of 


MR BED WORTH AND MR. SULLIVAN SMITH 31 

the fruits and flowers of the Four Quarters ; and Thomaa 
Redworth had vowed at his first outlook on the world of 
women, that never should one of the sisterhood coming 
under his charge complain of not having them in profu- 
sion Consequently he was a settled bachelor. In the 
character of disengaged and unaspiring philosophical bach- 
elor, he reviewed the revelations of her character betrayed 
by the beautiful virgin devoted to the sanguine coat. The 
thrill of her voice in speaking of soldier-heroes shot him 
to the yonder side of a gulf. Not knowing why, for he 
had no scheme, desperate or other, in his head, the least 
affrighted of men was frightened by her tastes, and by her 
aplomb, her inoffensiveness in freedom of manner and self- 
sufficiency — sign of purest breeding : and by her easy, 
peerless vivacity, her proofs of descent from the blood of 
Dan Merion — a wildish blood. The candour of the look 
of her eyes in speaking, her power of looking forthright at 
men, and looking the thing she spoke, and the play of her 
voluble lips, the significant repose of her lips in silence, 
her weighing of the words he uttered, for a moment before 
the prompt apposite reply, down to her simple quotation 
of Pat, alarmed him; he did not ask himself why. His 
manly self was not intruded on his cogitations. A mere 
eight hundred or thousand per annum had no place in that 
midst. He beheld her quietly selecting the position of 
dignity to suit her: an eminent military man, or states 
man, or wealthy nobleman : she had but to choose. A 
war would offer her the decorated soldier she wanted. A 
war! Such are women of this kind! The thought revolted 
him, and pricked his appetite for supper. He did service 
by Mrs. Pettigrew, to which lady Miss Merion, as she 
said, promoted him, at the table, and then began to refresh 
in person, standing. 

“Malkin! that ’s the fellow’s name; ” he heard close at 
his ear. 

Mr. Sullivan Smith had drained a champagne-glass, 
bottle in hand, and was priming the successor to it. He 
cocked his eye at Mr. Redworth’s quick stare. “Malkin! 
Ind now we ’ll see whether the interior of him is grey, or 
black, or tabby, or tortoise-shell, or any other colour of 
the Malkin breed.” 


32 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

He explained to Mr. Redworth that he had summoned 
Mr. Malkin to answer to him as a gentleman for calling 
Miss Merion a jilt. “The man, sir, said in my hearing, 
she jilted him, and that ’s to call the lady a jilt. There ’s 
not a point of difference, not a shade. I overheard him. 
I happened by the blessing of Providence to be by when 
he named her publicly jilt. And it *s enough that she ’s a 
lady to have me for her champion. The same if she had 
been an Esquimaux squaw. I ’ll never live to hear a lady 
insulted.” 

“ You don’t mean to say you ’re the donkey to provoke a 
duel!” Mr. Redworth burst out gruffly, through turkey 
and stuffing. 

“And an Irish lady, the young Beauty of Erin!” Mr. 
Sullivan Smith was flowing on. He became frigid, he 
politely bowed: “Two, sir, if you haven’t the grace to 
withdraw the offensive term before it cools and can’t be 
obliterated.” 

“Fiddle! and go to the deuce! ” Mr. Redworth cried. 

“Would a soft slap o’ the cheek persuade you, sir?” 

“ Try it outside, and don’t bother me with nonsense of 
that sort at my supper. If I ’m struck, I strike back. ] 
keep my pistols for bandits and law-breakers. Here,” saic 
Mr. Redworth, better inspired as to the way of treating ar. 
ultra of the isle; “touch glasses: you ’re a gentleman, and 
won’t disturb good company. By-and-by.” ' 

The pleasing prospect of by-and-by renewed in Mr 
Sullivan Smith his composure. They touched the foam:inf; 
glasses: upon which, in a friendly manner, Mr. Sullivai 
Smith proposed that they should go outside as soon as Mr. 
Redworth had finished supper — quite finished supper: foi 
the reason that the term “donkey ” affixed to him was like 
a minster cap of schooldays, ringing bells on his topknot, 
and also that it stuck in his gizzard. 

Mr. Redworth declared the term to be simply hypothet* 
ical. “ If you fight, you ’re a donkey for doing it. But 
you won’t fight.” 

“But I will fight.” 

“ He won’t fight.” 

“ Then for the honour of your country you must. But 
I ’d rather have him first, for I have n’t drunk with him, 


MR. REDWORTH AND MR. SULLIVAN SMITH 33 


and it should be a case of necessity to put a bullet or a 
couple of inches of steel through the man you ’ve drunk 
with. And what ’s in your favour, she danced with ye. 
She seemed to take to ye, and the man she has the smallest 
sugar-melting for is sacred if he ’s not sweet to me. If he 
retracts ! ” 

“Hypothetically, No.” 

“But supposititiously? ” 

“Certainly.” 

“Then we grasp hands on it. It ’s Malkin or nothing! ” 
said Mr. Sullivan Smith, swinging his heel moodily to 
wander in search of the foe. How one sane man could 
name another a donkey for lighting to clear an innocent 
young lady’s reputation, passed his rational conception. 

Sir Lukin hastened to Mr. Redworth to have a talk over 
old schooldays and fellows. 

“I ’ll tell you what,” said the civilian, “there are Irish- 
men and Irishmen. I ’ve met cool heads and long heads 
among them, and you and I knew Jack Derry, who was 
good at most things. But the burlesque Irishman can’t be 
caricatured. Nature strained herself in a fit of absurdity 
to produce him, and all that Art can do is to copy.” 

This was his prelude to an account of Mr. Sullivan 
Smith, whom, as a specimen, he rejoiced to have met. 

“There’s a chance of mischief,” said Sir Lukin. “I 
know nothing of the man he calls Malkin. I ’ll inquire 
presently.” 

He talked of his prospects, and of the women. Fair 
ones, in his opinion, besides Miss Merion were parading; 
he sketched two or three of his partners with a broad brush 
of epithets. 

“It won’t do for Miss Merion’s name to be mixed up in 
a duel,” said Rectwortn. 

“Not if she ’s to make her fortune in England,” said Sir 
Lukin. “It ’s probably all smoke.” 

The remark had hardly escaped him when a wreath of 
metaphorical smoke, and fire, and no mean report, startled 
the company of supping gentlemen. At the pitch of his 
voice, Mr. Sullivan Smith denounced Mr. Malkin in pres- 
ence for a cur masquerading as a cat. 

“And that is not the scoundrel’s prime offence. For 
3 


34 


DIANA OF ^HE CROSSWAYS 


what d’ ye think? He trumps up an engagement to dance 
with a beautiful lady, and because she can’t remember, 
binds her to an oath for a dance to come, and then, hold- 
ing her prisoner to ’m, he sulks, the dirty dog-cat goes 
and sulks, and he won’t dance and won’t do anything but 
screech up in corners that he ’s jilted. He said the word. 
Dozens of gentlemen heard the word. And I demand an 
apology of Misterr Malkin — or . . / And none of your 
guerrier nodding and bravado, Misterr Malkin, at me, if 
you please. The case is for settlement between gentle- 
men.” 

The harassed gentleman of the name of Malkin, driven 
to extremity by the worrying, stood in braced preparation 
for the English attitude of defence. His tormentor drew 
closer to him. 

“Mind, I give you warning, if you lay a finger on me 
I ’ll knock you down,” said he. 

Most joyfully Mr. Sullivan Smith uttered a low melo- 
dious cry. “For a specimen of manners, in an assembly 
of ladies and gentlemen ... I ask ye ! ” he addressed the 
ring about him, to put his adversary entirely in the wrong 
before provoking the act of war. And then, as one intend- 
ing gently to remonstrate, he was on the point of stretch- 
ing out his finger to the shoulder of Mr. Malkin, when 
Redworth seized his arm, saying: “I’m your man: me 
first: you ’re due to me.” 

Mr. Sullivan Smith beheld the vanishing of his foe in a 
cloud of faces. Now was he wroth on patently reasonable 
grounds. He threatened Saxondom. Man up, man down, 
he challenged the race of short-legged, thickset, wooden- 
pated curmudgeons: and let it be pugilism if their white 
livers shivered at the notion of powder and ball. Red- 
worth, in the struggle to haul him away, received a blow 
from him. “And you’ve got it! you would have it!” 
roared the Celt. 

“Excuse yourself to the company for a misdirected 
effort,” Redworth said; and he observed generall} T : “No 
Irish gentleman strikes a blow in good company.” 

“But that’s true as Writ! And I offer excuses — if 
you ’ll come along with me and a couple of friends. The 
thing has been done before by torchlight — and neatly.” 


MR. REDWORTH AND MR. SULLIVAN SMITH 35 

“Come along, and come alone/’ said Bedworth. 

A way was cleared for them. Sir Lukin hurried up to 
Bedworth, who had no doubt of his ability to manage Mr. 
Sullivan Smith. 

He managed that fine-hearted but purely sensational 
fellow so well that Lady Dunstane and Diana, after hear- 
ing in some anxiety of the hubbub below, beheld them 
entering the long saloon amicably, with the nods and looks 
of gentlemen quietly accordant. 

A little later, Lady Dunstane questioned Bedworth, and 
he smoothed her apprehensions, delivering himself, much 
to her comfort, thus: “In no case would any lady’s name 
have been raised. The whole affair was nonsensical. 
He’s a capital fellow of a kind, capable of behaving like 
a man of the world and a gentleman. Only he has, or 
thinks he has, like lots of his countrymen, a raw wound 
— - something that itches to be grazed. Champagne on 
that ! . . . Irishmen, as far as I have seen of them, are, 
like horses, bundles of nerves; and you must manage them, 
as you do with all nervous creatures, with firmness, but 
good temper. You must never get into a fury of the 
nerves yourself with them. Spur and whip they don’t 
want; they ’ll be off with you in a jiffy if you try it. 
They want the bridle-rein. That seems to me the secret 
of Irish character. We English are not bad horsemen. 
It ’s a wonder we blunder so in our management of such 
a people.” 

“ I wish you were in a position to put your method to 
c'he proof,” said she. 

He shrugged. “ There ’s little chance of it! ” 

To reward him for his practical discretion, she contrived 
that Diana should give him a final dance; and the beauti- 
ful girl smiled quickly responsive to his appeal. He was, 
moreover, sensible in her look and speech that he had 
advanced in her consideration to be no longer the mere 
spinning stick, a young lady’s partner. By which he 
humbly understood that her friend approved him. A 
gentle delirium enfolded his brain. A householder’s life 
is often begun on eight hundred a year: on less: on much 
less : — sometimes on nothing but resolution to make a 
fitting income, carving out a fortune. Eight hundred may 


36 . 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


stand as a superior basis. That sum is a distinct point of 
vantage. If it does not mean a carriage and Parisian mil- 
linery and a station for one of the stars of society, it means 
at any rate security ; and then, the heart of the man being 
strong and sound . . . 

‘‘Yes , 55 he replied to her, “I like my experience of Ire- 
land and the Irish; and better than I thought I should. 
St. George’s Channel ought to be crossed oftener by both 
of us.” 

“I ’m always glad of the signal,” said Diana. 

He had implied the people of the two islands. He 
allowed her interpretation to remain personal, for the sake 
\f a creeping deliciousness that it carried through his 
blood. 

“Shall you soon be returning to England?” he ventured 
to ask. 

“I am Lady Dunstane’s guest for some months.” 

“ Then you will. Sir Lukin has an estate in Surrey. 
He talks of quitting the Service.” 

“I can’t believe it! ” 

His thrilled blood was chilled. She entertained a sen- 
timent amounting to adoration for the profession of arms! 

Gallantly had the veteran General and Hero held on into 
the night, that the festivity might not be dashed by his 
departure; perhaps, to a certain degree, to prolong his 
enjoyment of a flattering scene. At last Sir Lukin had 
the word from him, and came to his wife. Diana slipped 
across the floor to her accommodating chaperon, whom, for 
the sake of another five minutes with her beloved Emma, 
she very agreeably persuaded to walk in the train of Lord 
Larrian, and forth they trooped down a pathway of nod- 
ding heads and curtsies, resembling oak and birch-trees 
under a tempered gale, even to the shedding of leaves, for 
here a turban was picked up by Sir Lukin, there a jewelled 
ear-ring by the self -constituted attendant, Mr. Thomas 
Ped worth. At the portico rang a wakening cheer, really 
worth hearing. The rain it rained, and hats were form- 
less, as in the first conception of the edifice, backs were 
damp, boots liquidly musical, the pipe of consolation 
smoked with difficulty, with much pulling at the stem, 
but the cheer arose magnificently, and multiplied itself, 


37 


hints of diana’s expediences 

touching at the same moment the heavens and Diana’s 
heart — a.t least, drawing them together; for she felt 
exalted, enraptured, as proud of her countrymen as of 
their hero. 

“That’s the natural shamrock, after the artificial!” she 
heard Mr. Redworth say, behind her. 

She turned and sent one of her brilliant glances flying 
over him, in gratitude for a timely word well said. And 
she never forgot the remark, nor he the look. 


CHAPTER IV 

CONTAINING HINTS OF DIANA’S EXPERIENCES AND OF 
WHAT THEY LED TO 

A fortnight after this memorable Ball the principal 
actors of both sexes had crossed the Channel back to Eng- 
land, and old Ireland was left to her rains from above and 
her undrained bogs below; her physical and her mental 
vapours; her ailments and her bog-bred doctors; as to 
whom the governing country trusted they would be silent 
or discourse humorously. 

The residence of Sir Lukin Dunstane, in the county of 
Surrey, inherited by him during his recent term of Indian 
services, was on the hills, where a day of Italian sky, or 
better, a day of our breezy South-west, washed from the 
showery night, gives distantly a tower to view, and a 
murky web, not without colour: the ever-flying banner of 
the metropolis, the smoke of the city’s chimneys, if you 
prefer plain language. At a first inspection of the house, 
Lady Dunstane did not like it, and it was advertized to be 
let, and the auctioneer proclaimed it in his dialect. Her 
taste was delicate; she had the sensitiveness of an invalid: 
twice she read the stalking advertizement of the attrac- 
tions of Copsley, and hearing Diana call it “ the plush of 
speech,” she shuddered; she decided that a place where 
her husband’s family had lived ought not to stand forth 
meretriciously spangled and daubed, like a show-booth at 


38 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


a fair, for a bait; though the grandiloquent man of adver* 
tizing letters assured Sir Lukin that a public agape for 
the big and gaudy mouthful is in no milder way to be 
caught; as it is apparently the case. She withdrew the 
trumpeting placard. Retract we likewise “ banner of the 
metropolis. ” That plush of speech haunts all efforts to 
swell and illuminate citizen prose to a princely poetic. 

Yet Lady Dunstane herself could name the bank of 
smoke, when looking North-eastward from her summer- 
house, the flag of London: and she was a person of the 
critical mind, well able to distinguish between the simple 
metaphor and the superobese. A year of habitation in- 
duced her to conceal her dislike of the place in love : cat’s 
love, she owned. Here, she confessed to Diana, she would 
wish to live to her end. It seemed remote, where an 
invigorating upper air gave new bloom to her cheeks; but 
she kept one secret from her friend. 

Copsley was an estate of nearly twelve hundred acres, 
extending across the ridge of the hills to the slopes North 
and South. Seven counties rolled their backs under this 
commanding height, and it would have tasked a pigeon to 
fly within an hour the stretch of country visible at the 
Copsley windows. Sunrise to right, sunset leftward, the 
borders of the grounds held both flaming horizons. So 
much of the heavens and of earth is rarely granted to a 
dwelling. The drawback was the structure, which had no 
charm, scarce a face. “ It is written that I should live in 
barracks,” Lady Dunstane said. The colour of it taught 
white to impose a sense of gloom. Her cat’s love of the 
familiar inside corners was never able to embrace the outer 
walls. Her sensitiveness, too, was racked by the presen- 
tation of so pitiably ugly a figure to the landscape. She 
likened it to a coarse-featured country wench, whose clean- 
ing and decorating of her countenance makes complexion 
grin and ruggedness yawn. Dirty, dilapidated, hung with 
weeds and parasites, it would have been more tolerable. 
She tried the effect of various creepers, and they were as 
a staring paint. What it was like then, she had no heart 
to say. 

One may, however, fall on a pleasureable resignation in 
accepting great indemnities, as Diana bade her believe, 


hints of diana’s experiences 


39 


when the first disgust began to ebb. “A good hundred 
over there would think it a Paradise for an asylum: ” she 
signified London. Her friend bore such reminders meekly. 
They were readers of books of all sorts, political, philo- 
sophical, economical, romantic; and they mixed the diverse 
readings in thought, after the fashion of the ardently 
youthful. Romance affected politics, transformed economy, 
irradiated philosophy. They discussed the knotty ques- 
tion, Why things were not done , the things being con- 
fessedly to do; and they cut the knot. Men, men calling 
themselves statesmen, declined to perform that operation, 
because, forsooth, other men objected to have it performed 
on them. And common humanity declared it to be for 
the common weal! If so, then it is clearly indicated as a 
^ course of action : we shut our eyes against logic and the 
vaunted laws of economy. They are the knot we cut; or 
would cut, had we the sword. Diana did it to the tune of 
Garryowen or Planxty Kelly. 0 for a despot! The cry 
was for a beneficent despot, naturally : a large-minded benev- 
olent despot. In short, a despot to obey their bidding. 
Thoughtful young people who think through the heart 
soon come to this conclusion. The heart is the beneficent 
despot they would be. He cures those miseries; he creates 
the novel harmony. He sees all difficulties through his 
own sanguine hues. He is the musical poet of the prob- 
lem, demanding merely to have it solved that he may sing: 
clear proof of the necessity for solving it immediately. 

Thus far in their pursuit of methods for the government 
of a nation, to make it happy, Diana was leader. Her fine 
ardour and resonance, and more than the convincing ring 
of her voice, the girPs impassioned rapidity in rushing 
through any perceptible avenue of the labyrinth, or beat- 
ing down obstacles to form one, and coming swiftly to 
some solution, constituted her the chief of the pair of 
democratic rebels in questions that clamoured for instant 
solution. By dint of reading solid writers, using the 
brains they possessed, it was revealed to them gradually 
that their particular impatience came perhaps of the most 
earnest desire to get to a comfortable termination of the 
inquiry; — the heart aching for mankind sought a nest for 
itself. At this point Lady Dunstane took the lead. Diana 


40 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


had to be tugged to follow. She could not accept a “ per 
haps ” that cast dubiousness on her disinterested champion- 
ship. She protested a perfect certainty of the single aim 
of her heart outward. But she reflected. She discovered 
that her friend had gone ahead of her. 

The discovery was reached, and even acknowledged, be- 
fore she could persuade herself to swallow the repulsive 
truth. 0 self ! self ! self ! are we eternally masking in a 
domino that reveals your hideous old face when we could 
be most positive we had escaped you ? Eternally ! the 
desolating answer knelled. Nevertheless the poor, the 
starving, the overtaxed in labour, they have a right to the 
cry of Now ! now ! They have ; and if a cry could conduct 
us to the secret of aiding, healing, feeding, elevating them, 
we might swell the cry. As it is, we must lay it on our 
wits patiently to track and find the secret; and meantime 
do what the individual with his poor pittance can. A 
miserable contribution ! sighed the girl. Old Self was 
perceived in the sigh. She was haunted. 

After all, one must live one’s life. Placing her on a 
lower pedestal in her self-esteem, the phijosophy of youth 
revived her; and if the abatement of her personal pride 
was dispiriting, she began to see an advantage in getting 
inward eyes. 

“ It ’s infinitely better I should know it, Emmy — I ’m a 
reptile ! Pleasure here, pleasure there, I ’m always think- 
ing of pleasure. I shall give up thinking and take to 
drifting. Neither of us can do more than open purses; 
and mine’s lean. If the old Crossways had no tenant, it 
would be a purse all mouth. And charity is haunted, like 
everything we do. Only I say with my whole strength — 
yes, I am sure, in spite of the men professing that they are 
practical, the rich will not move without a goad. I have 
and hold — you shall hunger and covet, until you are 
strong enough to force my hand : — that ’s the speech of 
the wealthy. And they are Christians. In name. Well, 
I thank heaven I ’m at war with myself.” 

“You always manage to strike out a sentence worth 
remembering, Tony,” said Lady Dunstane. “At war with 
ourselves, means the best happiness we can have.” 

It suited her, frail as her health was, and her wisdom 


HINTS OF DIANA’S EXPERIENCES 


41 


striving to the spiritual of happiness. War with herself 
was far from happiness in the bosom of Diana. She 
wanted external life, action, fields for energies, to vary the 
struggle. It fretted and rendered her ill at ease. In her 
solitary rides with Sir Lukin through a long winter season, 
she appalled that excellent but conventionally-minded gen- 
tleman by starting, nay supporting, theories next to pro- 
fane in the consideration of a land-owner. She spoke of 
Reform: of the Repeal of the Corn Laws as the simple 
beginning of the grants due to the people. She had her 
ideas, of course, from that fellow Red w-orth, an occasional 
visitor at Copsley; and a man might be a donkey-and think 
what he pleased, -since he had a vocabulary to back his 
opinions. A woman, Sir Lukin held, was by nature a mute 
in politics. Of the thing called a Radical woman, he could 
not believe that she was less than monstrous : “ with a 
nose,” he said ; and doubtless, horse teeth, hatchet jaws, 
slatternly in the gown, slipshod, awful. As for a girl, an 
unmarried, handsome girl, admittedly beautiful, her inter- 
jections, echoing a man, were ridiculous, and not a little 
annoying now and then, for she could be piercingly sarcas- 
tic. Her vocabulary in irony was a quiverful. He ad- 
mired her and liked her immensely ; complaining only of 
her turn for unfeminine topics. He pardoned her on the 
score of the petty difference rankling between them in 
reference to his abandonment of his Profession, for here 
she was patriotically wrong-headed. Everybody knew that 
he had sold out in order to look after his estates of Copsley 
and Dunena, secondly : and in the first place, to nurse and 
be a companion to his wife. He had left her but four 
times in five months; he had spent just three weeks of that 
time away from her in London. Ho one could doubt of 
his having kept his pledge, although his wife occupied her- 
self with books and notions and subjects foreign to his 
taste — his understanding, too, he owned. And Redworth 
had approved of his retirement, had a contempt for soldier- 
ing. “ Quite as great as yours for civilians, I can tell you,” 
Sir Lukin said, dashing out of politics to the vexatious per- 
sonal subject. Her unexpressed disdain was ruffling. 

“ Mr. Redworth recommends work : he respects the work- 
lug soldier/’ said Diana. 


42 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Sir Lukin exclaimed that he had been a working soldier 1 , 
he was ready to serve if his country wanted him. He 
directed her to anathematize Peace, instead of scorning a 
fellow for doing the duties next about him : and the men- 
tion of Peace fetched him at a bound back to politics. He 
quoted a distinguished Tory orator, to the effect, that any 
lengthened term of peace bred maggots in the Heads of 
the people. 

“Mr. Redworth spoke of it: he translated something 
from Aristophanes for a retort/’ said Diana. 

“Well, we’re friends, eh?” Sir Lukin put forth a 
hand. 

She looked at him surprised at the unnecessary call for a 
show of friendship ; she touched his hand with two tips of 
her fingers, remarking, “I should think so, indeed.” 

He deemed it prudent to hint to his wife that Diana 
Merion appeared to be meditating upon Mr. Redworth. 

“ That is a serious misfortune, if true,” said Lady 
Dunstane. She thought so for two reasons : Mr. Redworth 
generally disagreed in opinion with Diana, and contradicted 
her so flatly as to produce the impression of his not even 
sharing the popular admiration of her beauty ; and, further, 
she hoped for Diana to make a splendid marriage. The 
nibbles threatened to be snaps and bites. There had been 
a proposal, in an epistle, a quaint effusion, from a gentle- 
man avowing that he had seen her and had not danced with 
her on the night of the Irish ball. He was rejected, but 
Diana groaned over the task of replying to the unfortunate 
applicant, so as not to wound him. “ Shall I have to do 
this often, I wonder?” she said. 

“Unless you capitulate,” said her friend. 

Diana’s exclamation : “ May I be heart-free for another 
ten years ! ” encouraged Lady Dunstane to suppose her 
husband quite mistaken. 

In the Spring Diana went on a first pilgrimage to her 
old home, The Crossways, and was kindly entertained bv 
the uncle and aunt of a treasured nephew, Mr. Augustus 
Warwick. She rode with him on the Downs. A visit of 
a week humanized her view of the intruders. She wrote 
almost tenderly of her host and hostess to Lady Dunstane : 
they had but “ the one fault of spoiling their nephew ” 


HINTS OF DIANA’S EXPERIENCES 43 

Him she described as a “ gentlemanly official,” a picture of 
him. His age was thirty -four. He seemed “ fond of her 
scenery.” Then her pen swept over the Downs like a fly- 
ing horse. Lady Dunstane thought no more of the gentle- 
manly official. He was a barrister who did not practise : 
in nothing the man for Diana. Letters came from the 
house of the Pettigrews in Kent ; from London ; from Hal- 
ford Manor in Hertfordshire; from Lockton Grange in 
Lincolnshire : after which they ceased to be the thrice 
weekly ; and reading the latest of them, Lady Dunstane 
imagined a flustered quill. The letter succeeding the 
omission contained no excuse, and it was brief. There 
was a strange interjection, as to the wearifulness of con- 
stantly wandering, like a leaf off the tree. Diana spoke 
of looking for a return of the dear winter days at Gopsley. 
That was her station. Either she must have had some dis- 
turbing experience, or Copsley was dear for a Redworth 
reason thought the anxious peruser; musing, dreaming, 
putting together divers shreds of correspondence and test- 
ing them with her intimate knowledge of Diana’s character, 
Lady Dunstane conceived that the unprotected beautiful 
girl had suffered a persecution, it might be an insult. She 
spelt over the names of the guests at the houses. Lord 
Wroxeter was of evil report : Captain Rampan, a Turf 
captain, had the like notoriety. And it is impossible in a 
great house for the hostess to spread her aegis to cover 
every dame and damsel present. She has to depend on the 
women being discreet, the men civilized. 

“ How brutal men can be ! ” was one of Diana’s inci- 
dental remarks, in a subsequent letter, relating simply to 
masculine habits. In those days the famous ancestral plea 
of “ the passion for his charmer ” had not been altogether 
socially quashed down among the provinces, where the 
bottle maintained a sort of sway, and the beauty which 
inflamed the sons of men was held to be in coy expectation 
of violent effects upon their boiling blood. There were, 
one hears that there still are, remnants of the pristine 
male, who, if resisted in their suing, conclude that they are 
scorned, and it infuriates them : some also whose “ passion 
for the charmer ” is an instinct to pull down the standard 
of the sex, by a bully imposition of sheer physical ascer- 


44 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


dency, whenever they see it flying with an air of gallant 
independence : and some who dedicate their lives to a study 
of the arts of the Lord of Reptiles, until they have worked 
the crisis for a display of him in person. Assault or siege, 
they have achieved their triumphs ; they have dominated 
a frailer system of nerves, and a young woman without 
father, or brother, or husband, to defend her, is cryingly a 
weak one, therefore inviting to such an order of heroesi. 
Lady Dunstane was quick-witted and had a talkative hus* 
band ; she knew a little of the upper social world of her 
time. She was heartily glad to have Diana by her side 
again. 

Not a word of any serious experience was uttered. Only 
on one occasion while they conversed, something being 
mentioned of her tolerance, a flush of swarthy crimson shot 
over Diana, and she frowned, with the outcry, “ Oh ! I 
have discovered that I can be a tigress 1 ” 

Her friend pressed her hand, saying, “ The cause a good 
one ! ” 

“Women have to fight.” 

Diana said no more. There had been a bad experience 
of her isolated position in the world. 

Lady Dunstane now indulged a partial hope that Mr. 
Red worth might see in this unprotected beautiful gill a 
person worthy of his esteem. He had his opportunities, 
and evidently he liked her. She appeared to take more 
cordially to him. She valued the sterling nature of the 
man. But they were a hopeless couple, they were so 
friendly. Both ladies noticed in him an abstractedness of 
look, often when conversing, as of a man in calculation ; 
they put it down to an ambitious mind. Yet Diana said 
then, and said always, that it was he who had first taught 
her the art of observing. On the whole, the brilliant mar- 
riage seemed a fairer prospect for her; how reasonable to 
anticipate, Lady Dunstane often thought when admiring 
the advance of Diana’s beauty in queenliness, for never did 
woman carry her head more grandly, more thrillingly make 
her presence felt; and if only she had been an actress 
showing herself nightly on a London stage, she would be- 
fore now have met the superb appreciation, melancholy U 
reflect upon.* 


HINTS OF DIANA’S EXPERIENCES 4$ 

Diana regained her happy composure at Copsley. She 
had, as she imagined, no ambition. The dulness of the 
pl^spe conveyed a charm to a nature recovering from dis- 
turbance to its clear smooth flow. Air, light, books, and 
her friend, these good things she had ; they were all she 
wanted. She rode, she walked, with Sir Lukin or Mr. 
Hedworth, for companion ; or with Saturday and Sunday 
guests, Lord Larrian, her declared admirer, among them. 
“ Twenty years younger ! ” he said to her, shrugging, with 
a merry smile drawn a little at the corners to sober sour- 
ness ; and she vowed to her friend that she would not have 
had the heart to refuse him. “ Though,” said she, “ speak- 
ing generally, I cannot tell you what a foreign animal a 
husband would appear in my kingdom.” Her experience 
had wakened a sexual aversion, of some slight kind, enough 
to make her feminine pride stipulate for perfect indepen- 
dence, that she might have the calm out of which imagina- 
tion spreads wing. Imagination had become her broader 
life, and on such an earth, under such skies, a husband who 
is not the fountain of it, certainly is a foreign animal : he 
is a discordant note. He contracts the ethereal world, 
deadens radiancy. He is gross fact, a leash, a muzzle, har- 
ness, a hood, whatever is detestable to the free limbs and 
senses. It amused Lady Dunstane to hear Diana say, one 
evening when their conversation fell by hazard on her 
future, that the idea of a convent was more welcome to her 
than the most splendid marriage. “ For,” she added, “ as I 
am sure I shall never know anything of this love they 
rattle about and rave about, I shall do well to keep to my 
good single path; and I have a warning within me that a 
step out of it will be a wrong one — for me, dearest ! ” 

She wished her view of the yoke to be considered purely 
personal, drawn from no examples and comparisons. The 
excellent Sir Lukin was passing a great deal of his time in 
London. His wife had not a word of blame for him ; he 
was a respectful husband, and attentive when present ; but 
so uncertain, owing to the sudden pressure of engagements, 
that Diana, bound on a second visit to The Crossways, 
doubted whether she would be able to quit her friend, 
whose condition did not allow of her being left solitary at 
Copsley. He came nevertheless a day before Diana’s 


46 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

appointed departure on her round of visits. She was 
pleased with him, and let him see it, for the encouragement 
of a husband in the observance of his duties. One of the 
horses had fallen lame, so they went out for a walk, at 
Lady Dunstane’s request. It was a delicious afternoon of 
Spring, with the full red disk of sun dropping behind the 
brown beech-twigs. She remembered long afterward the 
sweet simpleness of her feelings as she took in the scent of 
wild flowers along the lanes and entered the woods — jaws 
of another monstrous and blackening experience. He fell 
into the sentimental vein, and a man coming from that 
heated London life to these glorified woods, might be ex- 
cused for doing so, though it sounded to her just a little 
ludicrous in him. She played tolerantly second to it ; she 
quoted a snatch of poetry, and his whole face was bent to 
her, with the petition that she would repeat the verse. 
Much struck was this giant ex-dragoon. Ah 1 how fine ! 
grand ! He would rather hear that than any opera : it was 
diviner! “Yes, the best poetry is,” she assented. “On 
your lips,” he said. She laughed. “ I am not a particu- 
larly melodious reciter.” He vowed he could listen to her 
eternally, eternally. His face, on a screw of the neck and 
shoulders, was now perpetually three-quarters fronting. 
Ah ! she was going to leave. — “ Yes, and you will find my 
return quite early enough,” said Diana, stepping a trifle 
more briskly. His fist was raised on the length of the 
arm, as if in invocation. “ Not in the whole of London is 
there a woman worthy to fasten your shoe-buckles ! My 
oath on it ! I look ; I can’t spy one.” Such was his 
flattering eloquence. 

She told him not to think it necessary to pay her com- 
pliments. “ And here, of all places ! ” They were in tK 
heart of the woods. She found her hand seized — her waisv. 
Even then, so impossible is it to conceive the unimaginable 
even when the apparition of it smites us, she expected some 
protesting absurdity, or that he had seen something in 
her path. — What did she hear ? And from her friend’s 
husband ! 

If stricken idiotic, he was a gentleman ; the tigress she 
had detected in her composition did not require to be called 
forth ; half-a-dozen words, direct, sharp as fangs and teeth, 


HINTS OF DIANA’S EXPERIENCES 47 

with the eyes burning over them, sufficed for the work of 
defence. — “ The man who swore loyalty to Emma ! ” Her 
reproachful repulsion of eyes was unmistakable, withering ; 
as masterful as a superior force on his muscles. — What 
thing had he been taking her for ? — She asked it within : 
and he of himself, in a reflective gasp. Those eyes of hers 
appeared as in a cloud, with the wrath above : she had the 
look of a Goddess in anger. He stammered, pleaded across 
her flying shoulder — Oh ! horrible, loathsome, pitiable to 
hear ! . . . “ A momentary aberration . . . her beauty 
... he deserved to be shot ! . . . could not help admiring 
. . . quite lost his head ... on his honour ! never again ! ” 

Once in the roadway, and Copsley visible, she checked 
her arrowy pace for breath, and almost commiserated the 
dejected wretch in her thankfulness to him for silence. 
Nothing exonerated him, but at least he had the grace not 
to beg secresy. That would have been an intolerable whine 
of a poltroon, adding to her humiliation. He abstained; 
he stood at her mercy without appealing. 

She was not the woman to take poor vengeance. But, 
oh ! she was profoundly humiliated, shamed through and 
through. The question, was I guilty of any lightness — 
anything to bring this on me ? would not be laid. And 
how she pitied her friend ! This house, her heart’s home, 
was now a wreck to her : nay, worse, a hostile citadel. 
The burden of the task of meeting Emma with an open 
face, crushed her like very guilt. Yet she succeeded. 
After an hour in her bedchamber she managed to lock up 
her heart and summon the sprite of acting to her tongue 
and features : which ready attendant on the suffering 
female host performed his liveliest throughout the evening, 
to Emma’s amusement, and to the culprit ex-dragoon’s 
astonishment ; in whom, to tell the truth of him, her 
sparkle and fun kindled the sense of his being less criminal 
than he had supposed, with a dim vision of himself as the 
real proven donkey for not having been a harmless dash- 
more so. But, to be just as 'well as penetrating, this was 
only the effect of her personal charm on his nature. So 
it spurred him a moment, when it struck this doleful 
man that to have secured one kiss of those fresh and witty 
sparkling lips he would endure forfeits, pangs, anything 


48 


DIAKA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


save the hanging of his culprit’s head before his Emma 
Reflection washed him clean. Secresy is not a medical 
restorative, by no means a good thing for the baffled 
amorously-adventurous cavalier, unless the lady’s character 
shall have been firmly established in or over his hazy 
wagging noddle. Reflection informed him that the honour- 
able, generous, proud girl spared him for the sake of the 
house she loved. After a night of tossing, he rose right 
heartily repentant. He showed it in the best manner, not 
dramatically. On her accepting his offer to drive her down 
to the valley to meet the coach, a genuine illumination 
of pure gratitude made a better man of him, both to look 
at and in feeling. She did not hesitate to consent ; and 
he had half expected a refusal. She talked on the w r ay 
quite as usual, cheerfully, if. not altogether so spiritedly. 
A flash of her matchless wit now and then reduced him to 
that abject state of man beside the fair person he has 
treated high cavalierly, which one craves permission to 
describe as pulp. He was utterly beaten. 

The sight of Redworth on the valley road was a relief 
to them both. He had slept in one of the houses of the 
valley, and spoke of having had the intention to mount 
to Copsley. Sir Lukin proposed to drive him back. He 
glanced at Diana, still with that calculating abstract air 
of his ; and he was rallied. He confessed to being absorbed 
in railways, the new lines of railways projected to thread 
the land and fast mapping it. 

“You’ve not embarked money in them?” said Sir 
Lukin. 

The answer was : “ I have ; all I possess.” And Redworth 
for a sharp instant set his eyes on Diana, indifferent to 
Sir Lukin’s bellow of stupefaction at such gambling on the 
part of a prudent fellow. 

He asked her where she was to be met, where written to, 
during the Summer, in case of his wishing to send her 
news. 

She replied : “ Copsley will be the surest. I am always 
in communication with Lady Dunstane.” She coloured 
deeply. The recollection of the change of her feeling for 
Copsley suffused her maiden mind. 

The strange blush prompted an impulse in Redworth 


THE SCRUPULOUS GENTLEMAN 


49 


to speak to her at once of his venture in railways. But 
what would she understand of them, as connected with 
the mighty stake he was playing for ? He delayed. The 
coach came at a trot of the horses, admired by Sir Lukin, 
round a corner She entered it, her maid followed, the doo? 
banged, the horses trotted. She was off. 

Her destiny of the Crossways tied a knot, barred a gate, 
and pointed to a new direction of the road on that fine 
spring morning, when beech-buds were near the burst, 
cowslips yellowed the meadow-flats, and skylarks quivered 
upward. 

For many long years Redworth had in his memory, for a 
comment on procrastination and excessive scrupulousness 
in his calculating faculty, the blue back of a coach. 

He declined the vacated place beside Sir Lukin, promis- 
ing to come and spend a couple of days at Copsley in a 
fortnight — Saturday week. He wanted, he said, to have 
a talk with Lady Dunstane. Evidently he had railways 
on the brain, and Sir Lukin warned his wife to be guarded 
against the speculative mania, and advise the man, if she 
could. 


CHAPTER Y 

CONCERNING THE SCRUPULOUS GENTLEMAN WHO CAME 
TOO LATE 

On the Saturday of his appointment Redworth arrived at 
Copsley, with a shade deeper of the calculating look under 
his thick brows, habitual to him latterly. He found Lady 
Dunstane at her desk, pen in hand, the paper untouched ; 
and there was an appearance of trouble about her somewhat 
resembling his own, as he would have observed, had he 
been open-minded enough to notice anything, except that 
she was writing a fetter. He begged her to continue it; 
he proposed to read a book till she was at leisure. 

“I have to write, and scarcely know how,” said she, 
clearing her face to make the guest at home, and taking a 
chair by the fire, “ I would rather chat for half an hour,” 

I 


50 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


She spoke of the weather, frosty, but tonic ; bad for the 
last days of hunting, good for the farmer and the country , 
let us hope. 

Eedworth nodded assent. It might be surmised that he 
tvas brooding over those railways, in which he had embarked 
his fortune. Ah ! those railways ! She was not long coming 
to the wailful exclamation upon them, both to express her 
personal sorrow at the disfigurement of our dear England, 
and lead to a little, modest offering of a woman’s counsel 
to the rash adventurer ; for thus could she serviceably put 
aside her perplexity awhile. Those railways ! When 
would there be peace in the land ? Where one single nook 
of shelter and escape from them ! And the English, blunt 
as their senses are to noise and hubbub, would be revelling 
in hisses, shrieks, puffings and screeches, so that travelling 
would become an intolerable affliction. “ I speak rather as 
an invalid,” she admitted; “I conjure up all sorts of 
horrors, the whistle in the night beneath one’s windows, 
and the smoke of trains defacing the landscape ; hideous 
accidents too. They will be wholesale and past help. 
Imagine a collision ! I have borne many changes with 
equanimity, I pretend to a certain degree of philosophy, 
but this mania for cutting up the land does really cause me 
to pity those who are to follow us. They will not see the 
England we have seen. It will be patched and scored, 
disfigured . . . a sort of barbarous Maori visage — England 
in a New Zealand mask. You may call it the sentimental 
view. In this case, I am decidedly sentimental : I love my 
country. I do love quiet, rural England. Well, and I love 
beauty, I love simplicity. All that will be destroyed by the 
refuse of the towns flooding the land — barring accidents, 
as Lukin says. There seems nothing else to save us.” 

Redworth acquiesced. “ Nothing.” 

“ And you do not regret it ? ” he was asked. 

" Not a bit. We have already exchanged opinions on 
the subject. Simplicity must go, and the townsman meet 
his equal in the countryman. As for beauty, I would 
sacrifice that to circulate gumption. A bushelful of non- 
sense is talked pro and con : it always is at an innovation. 
What we are now doing, is to take a longer and a quicker 
stride, that is all.” 


THE SCRUPULOUS GENTLEMAN • 


51 


a And establishing a new field for the speculator.* 

, u Yes, and I am one, and this is the matter I wanted to 
discuss with you, Lady Dunstane,” said Redworth, bending 
forward, the whole man devoted to the point of business. 

She declared she was complimented ; she felt the com- 
pliment, and trusted her advice might be useful, faintly 
remarking that she had a woman’s head : and “ not less ” 
was implied as much as “not more/’ in order to give 
strength to her prospective opposition. 

All his money, she heard, was down on the railway table. 
He might within a year have a tolerable fortune : and, of 
course, he might be ruined. He did not expect it; still he 
fronted the risks. “ And now,” said he, “ I come to you 
for counsel. I am not held among my acquaintances to be 
a marrying man, as it ’s called.” 

He paused. Lady Dunstane thought it an occasion to 
praise him for his considerateness. 

“You involve no one but yourself, you mean?” Her 
eyes shed approval. “ Still the day may come. ... I say 
only that it may : and the wish to marry is a rosy colouring 
. . . equal to a flying chariot in conducting us across diffi- 
culties and obstructions to the deed. And then one may 
have to regret a previous rashness.” 

These practical men are sometimes obtuse : she dwelt on 
that vision of the future. 

He listened, and resumed : “ My view of marriage is, that 
no man should ask a woman to be his wife unless he is 
well able to support her in the comforts, not to say luxuries, 
she is accustomed to.” His gaze had wandered to the desk; 
it fixed there. “ That is Miss Merion’s writing,” he said. 

“ The letter?” said Lady Dunstane, and she stretched 
out her hand to press down a leaf of it. “ Yes ; it is from 
her.” 

“ Is she quite well ? ” 

“ I suppose she is. She does not speak of her health.” 

He looked pertinaciously in the direction of the letter, 
and it was not rightly mannered. That letter, of all others, 
was covert and sacred to the friend. It contained the 
weightiest of secrets. 

“ I have not written to her,” said Redworth. 

He was astonishing: “ To whom? To Diana? You 


52 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


could very well have done so, only I fancy she knows 
nothing, has never given a thought to railway stocks and 
shares; she has a loathing for speculation.” 

“ And speculators too, I dare say.” 

“ It is extremely probable.” Lady Dunstane spoke with 
an emphasis, for the man liked Diana, and would be moved 
by the idea of forfeiting her esteem. 

“ She might blame me if I did anything dishonourable.” 

“ She certainly would.” 

“ She will have no cause.” 

Lady Dunatane began to look, as at a cloud charged with 
remote explosions : and still for the moment she was un- 
suspecting. But it was a flitting moment. When he went 
on, and very singularly droning to her ear : “ The more a 
man loves a woman, the more he should be positive, before 
asking her, that she will not have to consent to a loss of 
position, and I would rather lose her than fail to give her 
all — not be sure, as far as a man can be sure, of giving 
her all I think she ’s worthy of : ” then the cloud shot a 
lightning flash, and the doors of her understanding swung 
wide to the entry of a great wonderment. A shock of pain 
succeeded it. Her sympathy was roused so acutely that 
she slipped over the reflective rebuke she would have ad- 
dressed to her silly delusion concerning his purpose in 
speaking of his affairs to a woman. Though he did not 
mention Diana by name, Diana was clearly the person. And 
why had he delayed to speak to her ? — Because of this 
venture of his money to make him a fortune, for the assur- 
ance of her future comfort! Here was the best of men for 
the girl, not displeasing to her ; a good, strong, trustworthy 
man, pleasant to hear and to see, only erring in being a trifle 
too scrupulous in love : and a fortnight back she would have 
imagined he had no chance ; and now she knew that the 
chance was excellent in those days, with this revelation in 
Diana’s letter, which said that all chance was over. 

“ The courtship of a woman,” he droned away, “ is in my 
mind not fair to her until a man has to the full enough 
to sanction his asking her to marry him. And if he throws 
all he possesses on a stake ... to win her — give her what 
she has a right to claim, he ought. . . . Only at present 
the prospect seems good . . . He ought of course to wait. 


THE SCRUPULOUS GENTLEMAN 53 

Well, the value of the stock I hold has doubled, and it in- 
creases. I am a careful watcher of the market. I have 
friends — brokers and railway Directors. I can rely on 
them.” 

“ Pray,” interposed Lady Dunstane, “ specify — I am 
rather in a mist — the exact point upon which you do me 
the honour to consult me.” She ridiculed herself for having 
imagined that such a man would come to consult her upon 
a point of business. 

“ It is,” he replied, “ this : whether, as affairs now stand 
with me — I have an income from my office, and personal 
property . . . say between thirteen and fourteen hundred a 
year to start with — whether you think me justified in ask- 
ing a lady to share my lot ? ” 

“ Why not ? But will you name the lady ? ” 

“Then I may write at once? In your judgement ... . 
Tes, the lady. I have not named her. I had no right. 
Besides, the general question first, in fairness to the peti- 
tioner. You might reasonably stipulate for more for a 
friend. She could make a match, as you have said . . .” he 
muttered of “brilliant,” and “the highest;” and his 
humbleness of the honest man enamoured touched Lady 
Dunstane. She saw him now as the man of strength that 
she would have selected from a thousand suitors to guide 
her dear friend. 

She caught at a straw: “ Tell me, it is not Diana ? ” 

“ Diana Merion ! ” 

As soon as he had said it he perceived pity, and he drew 
himself tight for the stroke. “She’s in love with some 
one?” 

“ She is engaged.” 

He bore it well. He was a big-chested fellow, and that 
excruciating tw'ist within of the revolution of the wheels of 
the brain snapping their course to grind the contrary to 
that of the heart, was revealed in one short lift and gasp, a 
compression of the tremendous change he underwent. 

“ Why did you not speak before ? ” said Lady Dunstane. 
Her words were tremulous. 

“ I should have had no justification.” 

“You might have won her!” She could have wept; 
her sympathy and her self-condolence under disappoint* 


54 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


ment at Diana’s conduct joined to swell the feminine 
flood. 

The poor fellow’s quick breathing and blinking reminded 
her of cruelty in a retrospect. She generalized, to ease her 
spirit of regret, by hinting it without hurting: “Women 
really are not puppets. They are not so excessively 
luxurious. It is good for young women in the early days 
of marriage to rough it a -little.” She found herself 
droning, as he had done. 

He had ears for nothing but the fact. 

“ Then I am too late ! ” 

“I have heard it to-day.” 

“ She is engaged ! Positively?” 

Lady Dunstane glanced backward at the letter on her 
desk. She had to answer the strangest of letters that had 
ever come to her, and it was from her dear Tony, the 
baldest intimation of the weightiest piece of intelligence 
which a woman can communicate to her heart’s friend. 
The task of answering it was now doubled. “ I fear so, 
I fancy so,” she said, and she longed to cast eye over the 
letter again, to see if there might possibly be a loophole 
behind the lines. 

“Then I must make my mind up to it,” said Eed worth. 
“I think I ’ll take a walk.” 

She smiled kindly. “ It will be our secret.” 

“ I thank you with all my heart, Lady Dunstane.” 

He was not a weaver of phrases in distress. His blunt 
reserve was eloquent of it to her, and she liked him the 
better; could have thanked him too for leaving her 
promptly. 

When she was alone she took in the contents of the letter 
at a hasty glimpse. It was of one paragraph, and fired its 
shot like a cannon with the muzzle at her breast: — 

“ My own Emmy, — I have been asked in marriage by 
Mr. Warwick, and have accepted him. Signify your 
approval, for I have decided that it is the wisest thing a 
waif can do. We are to live at The Crossways for four 
months of the year, so I shall have Dada in his best days 
and all my youngest dreams, my sunrise and morning dew, 
surrounding me; my old home for my new one. I write 


THE SCRUPULOUS GENTLEMAN . 55 

In haste, to you first, burning to hear from you. Send 
your blessing to yours in life and death, through all 
transformations, 

“Tony.’ 

That was all. Not a word of the lover about to be deco- 
rated with the title of husband. No confession of love, 
nor a single supplicating word to her friend, in excuse 
for the abrupt decision to so grave a step. Her previous 
description of him, as a “ gentlemanly official ” in his 
appearance, conjured him up most distastefully. True, 
she might have made a more lamentable choice; — a silly 
lordling, or a hero of scandals ; but if a gentlemanly official 
was of stabler mould, he failed to harmonize quite so well 
with the idea of a creature like Tony. Perhaps Mr. Red- 
worth also failed in something. Where was the man fitly 
to mate her! Mr. Red worth, however, was manly and 
trustworthy, of the finest Saxon type in build and in char- 
acter. He had great qualities, and his excess of scrupu- 
lousness was most pitiable. 

She read: “The wisest thing a waif can do.” It bore a 
sound of desperation. Avowedly Tony had accepted him 
without being in love. Or was she masking the passion? 
No: had it been a case of love, she would have written 
very differently to her friend. 

Lady Dunstane controlled the pricking of the wound 
inflicted by Diana’s novel exercise in laconics where the 
fullest flow was due to tenderness, and despatched felici- 
tations upon the text of the initial line: “Wonders are 
always happening.” She wrote to hide vexation beneath 
surprise; naturally betraying it. “I must hope and pray 
tfiat you have not been precipitate.” Her curiosity to 
inspect the happiest of men, the most genuine part of her 
letter, was expressed coldly. When she had finished the 
composition she perused it, and did not recognize herselt 
in her language, though she had been so guarded to cover 
the wound her Tony dealt their friendship — in some degree 
injuring their sex. For it might now, after such an 
example, verily seem that women are incapable of a trans- 
lucent perfect confidence: — their impulses, caprices, des- 
perations, tricks of concealment, trip a heart-whole 


56 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


friendship. Well, to-morrow, if not to-day, the tripping 
may be expected ! Lady Dunstane resigned herself sadly 
to a lowered view of her Tony's character. This was her 
unconscious act of reprisal. Her brilliant beloved Tony, 
dazzling but in beauty and the gifted mind, stood as one 
essentially with the common order of women. She wished 
to be settled, Mr. Warwick proposed, and for the sake of 
living at The Crossways she accepted him — she, the lofty 
scorner of loveless marriages ! who had said • — how many 
times! that nothing save love excused it! She degraded 
their mutual high standard of womankind. Diana was in 
eclipse, full three parts. The bulk of the gentlemanly 
official she had chosen obscured her. But I have written 
very carefully, thought Lady Dunstane, dropping her 
answer into the post-bag. She had, indeed, been so care- 
ful, that to cloak her feelings, she had written as another 
person. Women with otiose husbands have a task to 
preserve friendship. 

.'Bed worth carried his burden through the frosty air at a 
pace to melt icicles in Greenland. He walked unthink- 
ingly, right ahead, to the red West, as he discovered when 
pausing to consult his watch. Time was left to return at 
the same pace and dress for dinner; he swung round and 
picked up remembrances of sensations he had strewn by 
the way. She knew these woods; he was walking in her 
footprints; she was engaged to be married. Yes, his prin- 
ciple, never to ask a woman to marry him, never to court 
her, without bank-book assurance of his ability to sup- 
port her in cordial comfort, was right. He maintained 
it, and owned himself a donkey for having stuck to it. 
Between him and his excellent principle there was war, 
without the slightest division. Warned of the. danger* of 
losing her, he would have done the same again, confessing 
himself donkey for his pains. The principle was right, 
because it was due to the woman. His rigid adherence to 
the principle set him belabouring his donkey-ribs, as the 
proper due to himself. Dor he might have had a chance, 
all through two Winters. The opportunities had been 
numberless. Here, in this beech wood; near that thorn- 
bush; on the juniper slope; from the corner of chalk and 
sand in junction, to the corner of clay and chalk; all the 


THE SCRUPULOUS GENTLEMAN 


57 


length of the wooded ridge he had reminders of her 
presence and his priceless chances : and still the standard 
of his conduct said No, while his heart bled. 

He felt that a chance had been. More sagacious than 
Lady Dunstane, from his not nursing a wound, he divined 
in the abruptness of Diana’s resolution to accept a suitor, 
a sober reason, and a fitting one, for the wish that she 
might be settled. And had he spoken! — If he had spoken 
to her, she might have given her hand to him, to a dis- 
honourable brute! A blissful brute. But a worse than 
donkey. Yes, his principle was right, and he lashed with 
it, and prodded with it, drove himself out into the sour 
wilds where bachelordom crops noxious weeds without a 
hallowing luminary, and clung to.it, bruised and bleeding 
though he was. 

The gentleness of Lady Dunstane soothed him during 
the term of a visit that was rather like purgatory sweet- 
ened by angelical tears. He was glad to go, wretched in 
having gone. She diverted the incessant conflict between 
his insubordinate self and his castigating, but avowedly 
sovereign, principle. Away from her, he was the victim 
of a flagellation so dire that it almost drove him to revolt 
against the lord he served, and somehow the many mem- 
ories at Copsley kept him away. Sir Lukin, when speak- 
ing of Diana’s ‘‘engagement to that fellow Warwick,” 
exalted her with an extraordinary enthusiasm, exceedingly 
hard for the silly beast who had lost her to bear. For the 
present the place dearest to Bed worth of all places on earth 
was unendurable. 

Meanwhile the value of railway investments rose in the 
market, fast as asparagus-heads for cutting: a circum- 
stance that added stings to reflection. Had he been only 
a little bolder, a little less the fanatical devotee of his rule 
of masculine honour, less the slave to the letter of success. 

. . . But why reflect at all? Here was a goodly income 
approaching, perhaps a seat in Parliament; a station for 
the airing of his opinions — and a social status for the 
wife now denied to him. The wife was denied to him; he 
could conceive of no other. The tyrant-ridden, reticent, 
tenacious creature had thoroughly wedded her in mind; 
her view of things haH a throne beside his own, even in 


58 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


their differences. He perceived, agreeing or disagreeing, 
the motions of her brain, as he did with none other of 
women; and this it is which stamps character on her, 
divides her from them, upraises and enspheres. He 
declined to live with any other of the sex. 

Before he could hear of the sort of man Mr. Warwick 
was — a perpetual object of his quest — the bridal bells 
had rung, and Diana Antonia Merion lost her maiden 
name. She became the Mrs. Warwick of our footballing 
world. 

Why she married, she never told. Possibly, in amaze- 
ment at herself subsequently, she forgot the specific reason. 
That which weighs heavily in youth, and commits us to 
desperate action, will be a trifle under older eyes to blun- 
ter senses, a more enlightened understanding. Her friend 
Emma probed for the reason vainly. It was partly revealed 
to Redworth, by guess-work and a putting . together of 
pieces,, yet quite luminously, as it were by touch of ten- 
tacle-feelers — one evening that he passed with Sir Lukin 
Dunstane, when the lachrymose ex-dragoon and son of 
Idlesse, had rather more than dined. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE COUPLE 

Six months a married woman, Diana came to Copsley to 
introduce her husband. They had run over Italy: “the 
Italian Peninsula,” she quoted him in a letter to Lady 
Dunstane : and were furnishing their London house. Her 
first letters from Italy appeared to have a little bloom of 
sentiment. Augustus was mentioned as liking this and 
that in the land of beauty. He patronized Art, and it was 
a pleasure to hear him speak upon pictures and sculptures; 
he knew a great deal about them. “He is an authority.” 
Her humour soon began to playground the fortunate man, 
who did not seem, to the reader’s mind, to bear so well a 
sentimental clothing. His pride was in being very English 


THE COUPLE 


59 


on the Continent, and Diana’s instances of his lofty appre- 
ciations of the garden of Art and Nature, and statuesque 
walk through it, would have been more amusing if her 
friend could have harmonized her idea of the couple. A 
description of “ a bit of a wrangle between us ” at Lucca, 
where an Italian post-master on a journey of inspection, 
claimed a share of their carriage and audaciously attempted 
entry, was laughable, but jarred. Would she some day 
lose her relish for ridicule, and see him at a distance? 
He was generous, Diana said: she saw fine qualities in 
him. It might be that he was lavish on his bridal tour. 
She said he was unselfish, kind, affable with his equals; 
he was cordial to the acquaintances he met. Perhaps his 
worst fault was an affected superciliousness before the 
foreigner, not uncommon in those days. “You are to 
know, dear Emmy, that we. English are the aristocracy of 
Europeans.” Lady Dunstane inclined to think we were; 
nevertheless, in the mouth of a “gentlemanly official” the 
frigid arrogance added a stroke of caricature to his deport- 
ment. On the other hand, the reports of him gleaned by 
Sir Lukin sounded favourable. He was not taken to be 
preternaturally stiff, nor bright, but a goodish sort of fel- 
low; good horseman, good shot, good character. In short, 
the average Englishman, excelling as a cavalier, a slayer, 
and an orderly subject. That was a somewhat elevated 
standard to the patriotic Emma. Only she would never 
have stipulated for an average to espouse Diana. Would 
he understand her, and value the best in her? Another 
and unanswered question was, how could she have conde- 
scended to wed with an average? There was transparently 
some secret not confided to her friend. 

He appeared. Lady Dunst&ie’s first impression of him 
recurred on his departure. Her unanswered question 
drummed at her ears, though she remembered that Tony’s 
art in leading him out had moderated her rigidly judicial 
summary of the union during a greater part of the visit. 
But his requiring to be led out, was against him. Con- 
sidering the subjects, his talk was passable. The subjects 
treated of politics, pictures, Continental travel, our manu- 
factures, our wealth and the reasons for it — excellent 
reasons well-weighed. He was handsome, as men go; 


60 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


rather tall, not too stout, precise in the modern fashion of 
his dress, and. the pair of whiskers encasing a colourless 
depression up to a long, thin, straight nose, and closed 
lips indicating an aperture. The contraction of his mouth 
expressed an intelligence in the attitude of the firmly 
negative. The lips opened to smile, the teeth were fault- 
less : an effect was produced, if a cold one — the colder for 
the un participating northern eyes; eyes of that half cloud 
and blue, which make a kind of hueless grey, and are 
chiefly striking in an authoritative stare. Without con- 
tradicting, for he was exactly polite, his look signified a 
person conscious of being born to command: in fine, an 
aristocrat among the “ aristocracy of Europeans.” His 
differences of opinion were prefaced by a “Pardon me,” 
and pausing smile of the teeth ; then a succinctly worded 
sentence or two, a perfect settlement of the dispute. He 
disliked argumentation. He said so, and Diana remarked 
it of him, speaking as a wife who merely noted a character- 
istic. Inside his boundary, he had neat phrases, opinions 
in packets. Beyond it, apparently the world was void of 
any particular interest. Sir Lukin, whose boundary would 
have shown a narrower limitation had it been defined, 
stood no chance with him. Tory versus "Whig, he tried 
a wrestle, and was thrown. They agreed on the topic of 
Wine. Mr. Warwick had a fine taste in "wine. Their 
after-dinner sittings were devoted to this and the allitera- 
tive cognate theme, equally dear to the gallant ex-dragoon, 
from which it resulted that Lady Dunstane received sat- 
isfactory information in a man’s judgement of him. 
“Warwick is a clever fellow, and a thorough man of the 
world, I can tell you, Emmy.” Sir Lukin further observed 
tha,t he was a gentlemanly fellow. “A gentlemanly offi- 
cial!” Diana’s primary dash of portraiture stuck to him, 
so true it was! As for her, she seemed to have forgotten 
it. Not only did she strive to show him to advantage by 
leading him out; she played second to him, subserviently, 
fondly; she quite submerged herself, content to be dull if 
he might shine; and her talk of her husband in her friend’s 
blue-chamber boudoir of the golden stars, where they had 
discussed the world and taken counsel in her maiden days, 
implied admiration of his merits. He rode superbly : he 


THE COUPLE 


63 


knew Law: he was prepared for any position: he could 
speak really eloquently; she had heard him at a local 
meeting. And he loved the old Crossways almost as much 
as she did. “He has promised me he will never ask me 
to sell it,” she said, with a simpleness that could hardly 
have been acted. 

When, she was gone, Lady Dunstane thought she had 
worn a mask, in the natural manner of women trying to 
^iake the best of their choice; and she excused her poor 
Tony for the artful presentation of him at her own cost. 
But she could not excuse her for having married the man. 
Her first and her final impression likened him to a house 
locked up and empty : — a London house conventionally 
furnished and decorated by the upholsterer, and empty of 
inhabitants. How a brilliant and beautiful girl could have 
committed this rashness, was the perplexing riddle: the 
knottier because the man was idle : and Diana had ambi- 
tion; she despised and dreaded idleness in men. — Empty 
of inhabitants even to the ghost! Both human and spir- 
itual were wanting. The mind contemplating him became 
reflectively stagnant. 

I must not be unjust! Lady Dunstane hastened to ex- 
claim, at a whisper that he had at least proved his appre- 
ciation of Tony ; whom he preferred to call Diana, as she 
gladly remembered: and the two were bound together for a 
moment warmly by her recollection of her beloved Tonyas 
touching little petition: “You will invite us again?” and 
then there had flashed in Tony's dear dark eyes the look 
of their old love drowning. They were not to be thought 
of separately. She admitted that the introduction to a 
woman of her friend’s husband is crucially trying to him : 
he may well show worse than \e is. Yet his appreciation 
of Tony in espousing her, was rather marred by Sir Lukin’s 
report of him as a desperate admirer of beautiful woman. 
It might be for her beauty only, not for her spiritual quali- 
ties! At present he did not seem aware of their existence. 
But, to be entirely just, she had hardly exhibited them or a 
sign of them during the first interview: and sitting with 
his hostess alone, he had seized the occasion to say, that 
he was the happiest of men. He said it with the nearest 
approach to fervour she had noticed. Perhaps the vert 


62 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


fact of his not producing a highly favourable impression, 
should be set to plead on his behalf. Such as he was, he 
was himself, no simulator. She longed for Mr. Redworth ’s 
report of him. 

Her compassion for Redworth’s feelings when behold- 
ing the woman he loved another man’s wife, did not soften 
the urgency of her injunction that he should go speedily, 
and see as much of them as he could. “Because,” she 
gave her reason, “I wish Diana to know she has not lost a 
single friend through her marriage, and is only one the 
richer.” 

Redworth buckled himself to the task. He belonged to 
the class of his countrymen who have a dungeon-vault for 
feelings that should not be suffered to cry abroad, and into 
this oubliette he cast them, letting them feed as they 
might, or perish. It was his heart down below, and in no 
voluntary musings did he listen to it, to sustain the thing. 
Grimly lord of himself, he stood emotionless before the 
world. Some worthy fellows resemble him, and they are 
called deep-hearted. He was dungeon-deep. The prisoner 
underneath might clamour and leap; none heard him or 
knew of him; nor did he ever view the day. Diana’s 
frank: “Ah, Mr. Redworth, how glad I am to see you!” 
was met by the calmest formalism of the wish for her 
happiness. He became a guest at her London house, and 
his report of the domesticity there, and notably of the 
lord of the house, pleased Lady Dunstane more than her 
husband’s. He saw the kind of man accurately, as far as 
men are to be seen on the surface; and she could say 
assentingly, without anxiety: “Yes, yes,” to his remarks 
upon Mr. Warwick, indicative of a man of capable head in 
worldly affairs, commonplace beside his wife. The noble 
gentleman for Diana was yet unborn, they tacitly agreed. 
Meantime one must not put a mortal husband to the fiery 
ordeal of his wife’s deserts, they agreed likewise. “You 
may be sure she is a constant friend,” Lady Dunstane said 
for his comfort; and she reminded herself subsequently of 
a shade of disappointment at his imperturbable rejoinder: 
“I could calculate ox it.” For though not at all desiring 
to witness the sentimental fit, she wished to see that he 
.held an image of Diana: — surely a woman to kindle poets 


THE COUPLE 


63 


and heroes, the princes of the race ; and it was a curious 
perversity that the two men she had moved were merely 
excellent, emotionless, ordinary men, with heads for busi- 
ness. Elsewhere, out of England, Diana would have been 
a woman for a place in song, exalted to the skies. Here 
she had the destiny to inflame Mr. Kedworth and Mr. 
Warwick, two railway Directors, bent upon scoring the 
country to the likeness of a child’s lines of hop-scotch in 
a gravel-yard. 

As with all invalids, the pleasure of living backward 
was haunted by the tortures it evoked, and two years later 
she recalled this outcry against the Fates. She would 
then have prayed for Diana to inflame none but such men 
as those two. The original error was, of course, that rash 
and most inexplicable marriage, a step never alluded to by 
the driven victim of it. Lady Dunstane heard rumours of 
dissensions. Diana did not mention them. She spoke 
of her husband as unlucky in railway ventures, and of a 
household necessity for money, nothing further. One day 
she wrote of a Government appointment her husband had 
received, ending the letter: “So there is the end of our 
troubles.” Her friend rejoiced, and afterward looking 
back at her satisfaction, saw the dire beginning of them. 

Lord Dannisburgh’s name, as one of the admirers of 
Mrs. Warwick, was dropped once or twice by Sir Lukin. 
He had dined with the Warwicks, and met the eminent 
member of the Cabinet at their table. There is no harm 
in admiration, especially on the part of one of a crowd 
observing a star. No harm can be imputed when the 
husband of a beautiful woman accepts an appointment from 
the potent Minister admiring her. So Lady Dunstane 
thought, for she was sure of 4)iana to her inmost soul. 
But she soon perceived in Sir Lukin that the old Dog- 
world was preparing to yelp on a scent. He of his nature 
belonged to the hunting pack, and with a cordial feeling 
for the quarry, he was quite with his world in expecting 
to see her run, and readiness to join the chase. No great 
scandal had occurred for several months. The world was 
in want of it; and he, too, with a very cordial feeling for 
the quarry, piously hoping she would escape, already had 
his nose to ground, collecting testimony in the track of 


64 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


he r. He said little to his wife, but his world was getting 
so noisy that he could not help half pursing his lips, as 
with the soft whistle of an innuendo at the heels of it. 
Red worth was in America, engaged in carving up that 
hemisphere. She had no source of information but her 
husband’s chance gossip; and London was death to her; 
and Diana, writing faithfully twice a week, kept silence 
as to Lord Dannisburgh, except in naming him among her 
guests. She wrote this, which might have a secret per- 
sonal signification: “We women are the verbs passive of 
the alliance, we have to learn, and if we take to activity, 
with the best intentions, we conjugate a frightful disturb- 
ance. We are to run on lines, like the steam -trains, or we 
come to no station, dash to fragments. I have the mis? 
fortune to know I was born an active. I take my chance.” 

Once she coupled the names of Lord Larrian and Lord 
Dannisburgh, remarking that she had a fatal attraction for 
antiques. 

The death of her husband’s uncle and illness of his aunt 
withdrew her to The Crossways, where she remained nurs- 
ing for several months, reading diligently, as her letters 
showed, and watching the approaches of the destroyer. 
She wrote like her former self, subdued by meditation in 
the presence of that inevitable. The world ceased bark- 
ing Lady Dunstane could suppose Mr. Warwick to have 
now a reconciling experience of his wife’s noble qualities. 
He probably did value them more. He spoke of her to 
Sir Lukin in London with commendation. “She is an 
attentive nurse. ” x He inherited a considerable increase of 
income when he and his wife were the sole tenants of The 
Crossways, but disliking the house, for reasons hard to 
explain by a man previously professing to share her attach- 
ment to it, he wished to sell or let the place, and his wife 
would do neither. She proposed to continue living in 
their small London house rather than be cut off from The 
Crossways, which, he said, was ludicrous: people should 
live up to their position; and he sneered at the place, and 
slightly wounded her, for she was open to a wound when 
the cold fire of a renewed attempt at warmth between them 
was crackling and showing bits of flame, after she had 
sjiven proof of her power to serve. Service to himself and 


THE COUPLE 


t>G 

his relatives affected him. He deferred to her craze for 
The Crossways, and they lived in a larger London house, 
“up to their position,” which means ever a trifle beyond 
it, and gave choice dinner-parties to the most eminent. 
His jealousy slumbered. Having ideas of a seat in Parlia- 
ment at this period, and preferment superior to the post 
he held, Mr. Warwick deemed it sagacious to court the 
potent patron Lord Dannisburgh could be; and his wife 
had his interests at heart, the fork-tongued world said. 
The cry revived. Stories of Lord D. and Mrs. W. whipped 
the hot pursuit. The moral repute of the great Whig lord 
and the beauty of the lady composed inflammable material. 

“ Are you altogether cautious ?” Lady Dunstane wrote to 
Diana; and her friend sent a copious reply : “You have 
the fullest right to ask your Tony anything, and I will 
answer as at the Judgement bar. You allude to Lord 
Dannisburgh. He is near what Dada’s age would have 
been, and is, I think I can affirm, next to my dead father 
and my Emmy, my dearest friend. I love him. I could 
say it in the streets without shame ; and you do not imagine 
me shameless. Whatever his character in his younger 
days, he can be honestly a woman’s friend, believe me. 

I see straight to his heart; he has no disguise; and unless 
I am to suppose that marriage is the end of me, I must 
keep him among my treasures. I see him almost daily; it 
is not possible to think I can be deceived; and as long as 
he does me the honour to esteem my poor portion of brains 
by coming to me for what he is good enough to call my 
counsel, I shall let the world wag its tongue. Between 
ourselves, I trust to be doing some good. I know I am of 
use in various ways. No doubt there is a danger of a 
woman’s head being turned,, when she reflects that a - 
powerful Minister governing a Kingdom has not considered 
her too insignificant to advise him ; and I am sensible of 
it. I am, I assure you, dearest, on my guard against it. 
That would not attach me to him, as his homely friendli- 
ness does. He is the most amiable, cheerful, benignant of 
men; he has no feeling of an enemy, though naturally his 
enemies are numerous and venomous. He is full of obser- 
vation and humour. How he would amuse you ! In many 
respects accord with you. And I should not have a spark 


86 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


of jealousy. Some day I shall beg permission to bring 
him to Copsley. At present, during the Session, he is 
too busy, as you know. Me — his ‘crystal spring of wis- 
dom ’ — he can favour with no more than an hour in the 
afternoon, or a few minutes at night. Or I get a pen- 
cilled note from the benches of the blouse, with an anec- 
dote, or news of a Division. I am sure to be enlivened. 

“ So I have written to you fully, simply, frankly. Have 
perfect faith in your Tony, who would, she vows to heaven, 
die rather than disturb it and her heart’s beloved.” 

The letter terminated with one of Lord Dannisburgh’s 
anecdotes, exciting to merriment in the season of its 
freshness; — and a postscript of information: “Augustus 
expects a mission — about a month; uncertain whether I 
accompany him.” 

Mr. Warwick departed on his mission. Diana remained 
in London. Lady Dunstane wrote entreating her to pass 
the month — her favourite time of the violet yielding to 
the cowslip — at Copsley. The invitation could not be 
accepted, but the next day Diana sent word that she 
had a surprise for the following Sunday, and would bring 
a friend to lunch, if Sir Lukin would meet them at the 
corner of the road in the valley leading up to the heights, 
at a stated hour. 

Lady Dunstane gave the listless baronet his directions, 
observing: “It’s odd, she never will come alone since her 
marriage.” 

“Queer,” said he of the serenest absence of conscience; 
and that there must be something not entirely right going 
on, he strongly inclined to think. 


CHAPTER YII 

THE CRISIS 

It was a confirmed suspicion when he beheld Lord 
Dannisburgh on the box of a four-in-hand, and the peer- 
less Diana beside him, cockaded lackeys in plain livery 
and the lady’s maid to the rear. But Lord Dannisburgh’s 


THE CRISIS 


67 


visit was a compliment, and the freak of his driving down 
under the beams of Aurora on a sober Sunday morning 
capital fun ; so with a gaiety that was kept alive for the 
invalid Emma to partake of it, they rattled away to the 
heights, and climbed them, and Diana rushed to the arms 
of her friend, whispering and cooing for pardon if she 
startled her, guilty of a little whiff of blarney : — Lord 
Dannisburgh wanted so much to be introduced to her, and 
she so much wanted her to know him, and she hoped to 
be graciously excused for thus bringing them together, 
“that she might be chorus to them ! ” Chorus was a pretty 
fiction on the part of the thrilling and topping voice. She 
was the very radiant Diana of her earliest opening day, 
both in look and speech, a queenly comrade, and a spirit 
leaping and shining like a mountain water. She did notr 
seduce, she ravished. The judgement was taken captive 
and flowed with her. As to the prank of the visit, Emma 
heartily enjoyed it and hugged it for a holiday of her own, 
and doting on the beautiful, dark-eyed, fresh creature, who 
bore the name of the divine Huntress, she thought her a 
true Dian in stature, step, and attributes, the genius of 
laughter superadded. Hone else on earth so sweetly 
laughed, none so spontaneously, victoriously provoked the 
healthful openness. Her delicious chatter, and her muse- 
ful sparkle in listening, equally quickened every sense of 
life. Adorable as she was to her friend Emma at all times, 
she that day struck a new fountain in memory. And it 
was pleasant to see the great lord’s admiration of this 
wonder. One could firmly believe in their friendship, and 
his winning ideas from the abounding bubbling well. A 
recurrent smile beamed on his face when hearing and 
observing her. Certain dishes provided at the table were 
Diana’s favourites, and he relished them, asking for a 
second help, and remarking that her taste was good in that 
as in all things. They lunched, eating like boys. They 
walked over the grounds of Copsley, and into the lanes and 
across the meadows of the cowslip, rattling, chatting, en- 
livening the frosty air, happy as children biting to the 
juices of ripe apples off the tree. But Tony was the tree, 
the dispenser of the rosy gifts. She had a moment of 
reflection, only a moment, and Emma felt the pause a ? 


68 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


though a cloud had shadowed them and a spirit had been 
shut away. Both spoke of their happiness at the kiss of 
parting. That melancholy note at the top of the wave to 
human hearts conscious of its enforced decline was repeated 
by them, and Diana’s eyelids blinked to dismiss a tear. 

“ You have no troubles ? ” Emma said. 

“ Only the pain of the good-bye to my beloved,” said 
Diana. “I have never been happier — never shall be! 
Now you know him you think with me ? I knew you 
would. You have seen him as he always is — except when 
he is armed for battle. He is the kindest of souls. And 
soul I say. He is the one man among men who gives me 
notions of a soul in men.” 

The eulogy was exalted. Lady Dunstane made a little 
mouth for Oh, in correction of the transcendental touch, 
though she remembered their foregone conversations upon 
men — strange beings that they are! — and understood 
Diana’s meaning. 

“ Really ! really ! honour ! ” Diana emphasized her ex- 
travagant praise, to print it fast. “Hear him speak of 
Ireland.” 

“ Would he not speak of Ireland in a tone to catch 
the Irishwoman ? ” 

“ He is past thoughts of catching, dearest. At that age 
men are pools of fish, or what you will : they are not 
anglers. Next year, if you invite us, we will come again.” 

“ But you will come to stay in the Winter ? ” 

“ Certainly. But I am speaking of one of my holidays.” 

They kissed fervently. The lady mounted : the grey and 
portly lord followed her; Sir Lukin flourished his whip, 
and Emma was left to brood over her friend’s last words : 
“ One of my holida}^.” Not a hint to the detriment of her 
husband had passed. The stray beam balefully illumi 
nating her marriage slipped from her involuntarily. Sir 
Lukin was troublesome with his ejaculations that evening, 
and kept speculating on the time of the arrival of the 
four-in-hand in London ; upon which he thought a great 
deal depended. They had driven out of town early, and 
if they drove back late they would not be seen, as all the 
cacklers were sure then to be dressing for dinner, and he 
would not pass the Clubs. “I couldn’t not suggest it,” 


THE CRISIS 


69 


he said. u But Dannisburgh ’s an old band. But they say 
lie snaps bis fingers at tattle, and laugbs. Well, it does n’t 
matter for him, perhaps, but a game of two. ... Oh! 
it ’ll be all right. They can’t reach London before dusk. 
And the cat ’s away.” 

“It’s more than ever incomprehensible to me how she 
could have married that man,” said his wife. 

“ I ’ve long since given it up,” said he. 

Diana wrote her thanks for the delightful welcome, tell- 
ing of her drive home to smoke and solitude, with a new 
host of romantic sensations to keep her company. She 
wrote thrice in the week, and the same addition of one 
to the ordinary number next week. Then for three weeks 
not a line. ’ Sir Lukin brought news from London that 
Warwick had returned, nothing to explain the silence. A 
letter addressed to The Crossways was likewise unnoticed. 
The supposition that they must be visiting on a round, 
appeared rational; but many weeks elapsed, until Sir 
Lukin received a printed sheet in the superscription of a 
former military comrade, who had marked a paragraph. 
It was one of those journals, now barely credible, dedicated 
to the putrid of the upper circle, wherein initials raised 
sewer-lamps, and Asmodeus lifted a roof, leering hideously. 
Thousands detested it, and fattened their crops on it. 
Domesticated beasts of superior habits to the common will 
indulge themselves with a luxurious roll in carrion, for a 
revival of their original instincts. Society was largely a 
purchaser. The ghastly thing was dreaded as a scourge, 
hailed as a refreshment, nourished as a parasite. It pro- 
fessed undaunted honesty, and operated in the fashion 
of the worms bred of decay. Success was its boasted justi- 
fication. The animal world, w^ien not rigorously watched, 
will always crown with success the machine supplying its 
appetites. The old dog-world took signal from it. The 
one-legged devil-god waved his wooden hoof, and the 
creatures in view, the hunt was uproarious. Why should 
we seem better than we are ? — down with hypocrisy, 
cried the censor morum, spicing the lamentable derelictions 
of this and that great person, male and female. The plea 
of corruption of blood in the world, to excuse the public 
chafing of a grievous itch, is not less old than sin j and 


70 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


it offers a merry day of frisky truant running to the 
animal made unashamed by another and another stripped, 
branded, and stretched flat. Sir Lukin read of Mr. and 
Mrs. W. and a distinguished Peer of the realm. The 
paragraph was brief; it had a flavour. Promise of more 
to come, pricked curiosity. He read it enraged, feeling 
for his wife ; and again indignant, feeling for Diana. His 
third reading found him out : he felt for both, but as a 
member of the whispering world, much behind the scenes, 
he had a longing for the promised insinuations, just to 
know what they could say, or dared say. The paper was 
not shown to Lady Dunstane. A run to London put him 
in the tide of the broken dam of gossip. The names were 
openly spoken and swept from mouth to mouth of the 
scandalmongers, gathering matter as they flew. He 
knocked at Diana’s door, where he was informed that the 
mistress of the house was absent. More than official 
gravity accompanied the announcement. Her address was 
unknown. Sir Lukin thought it now time to tell his 
wife. He began with a hesitating circumlocution, in order 
to prepare her mind for bad news. She divined imme- 
diately that it concerned Diana, and forcing him to speak 
to the point, she had the story jerked out to her in a 
sentence. It stopped her heart. 

The chill of death was tasted in that wavering ascent from 
oblivion to recollection. Why had not Diana come to her, 
she asked herself, and asked her husband ; who, as usual, 
was absolutely unable to say. Under compulsory squeezing, 
he would have answered, that she did not come because she 
could not fib so easily to her bosom friend : and this he 
thought, notwithstanding his personal experience of Diana’s 
generosity. But he had other personal experiences of her 
sex, and her sex plucked at the bright star and drowned it. 

The happy day of Lord Dannisburgh’s visit settled in 
Emma’s belief as the cause of Mr. Warwick’s unpardonable 
suspicions and cruelty. Arguing from her own sensations 
of a day that had been like the return of sweet health to her 
frame, she could see nothing but the loveliest freakish in- 
nocence in Diana’s conduct, and she recalled her looks, her 
words, every fleeting gesture, even to the ingenuousness of 
the noble statesman’s admiration of her, for the confusion 


THE CRISIS 


71 


of her unmanly and unworthy husband. And Emma was 
I nevertheless a thoughtful person ; only her heart was at the 
! head of her thoughts, and led the file, whose reasoning was 
accurate on erratic tracks. All night her heart went at 
fever pace. She brought the repentant husband to his knees, 
and then doubted, strongty doubted, whether she would, 
whether in consideration for her friend she could, intercede 
with Diana to forgive him. In the morning she slept 
heavily. Sir Lukin had gone to London early for further 
tidings. She awoke about midday, and found a letter on 
| her pillow. It was Diana’s. Then while her fingers eagerly 
| tore it open, her heart, the champion rider over-night, sank. 

| It needed support of facts, and feared them : not in distrust 
of that dear persecuted soul, but because the very bravest of 
hearts is of its nature a shivering defender, sensitive in the 
presence of any hostile array, much craving for material 
support, until the mind and spirit displace it, depute it to 
second them instead of leading. 

She read by a dull November fog-light a mixture of the 
dreadful arid the comforting, and dwelt upon the latter in 
abandonment, hugged it, though conscious of evil and the 
little that there was to veritably console. 

The close of the letter struck the blow. After bluntly 
stating that Mr. Warwick had served her with a process, and 
that he had no case without suborning witnesses, Diana said . 
4i But I leave the case, and him, to the world. Ireland, or 
else America, it is a guiltless kind of suicide to bury myself 
abroad. He has my letters. They are such as I can own to 
you, and ask you to kiss me — and kiss me when you have 
heard all the evidence, all that I can add to it, kiss me. 
You know me too well to think I would ask you to kiss 
criminal lips. But I cannot face the world. In the dock, 
yes. Not where I am expected to smile and sparkle, on 
pain of incurring suspicion if I show a sign of oppression. 
I cannot do that. I see myself wearing a false grin — your 
Tony ! No, I do well to go. This is my resolution ; and in 
cdnsequence, my beloved ! my only truly loved on earth ! I 
do not come to you, to grieve you, as I surely should. Nor 
would it soothe me, dearest. This will be to you the best of 
reasons. It could not soothe me to see myself giving pain 
to Emma. I am like a pestilence, and let me swing away to 


72 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


the desert, for there I do no harm. I know I am right. 1 
have questioned myself — it is not cowardice. I do not 
quail. I abhor the part of actress. I should do it well — 
too well ; destroy my soul in the performance. Is a good 
name before such a world as this worth that sacrifice ? A 
convent and self-quenching ; — cloisters would seem to me 
like holy dew. But that would be sleep, and I feel the 
powers of life. Never have I felt them so mightily. If it 
were not for being called on to act and mew, I would stay, 
fight, meet a bayonet-hedge of charges and rebut them. 
I have my natural weapons and my cause. It must be con- 
fessed that I have also more knowledge of men and the 
secret contempt — it must be — the best of them entertain 
for us. Oh ! and we confirm it if we trust them. But they 
have been at a wicked school. 

“ I will write. From whatever place, you shall have 
letters, and constant. I write no more now. In my present 
mood I find no alternative between rageing and drivelling. 
I am henceforth dead to the world. Never dead to Emma 
till my breath is gone — poor flame ! I blow at a bed-room 
candle, by which I write in a brown fog, and behold what I 
am — though not even serving to write such a tangled 
scrawl as this. I am of no mortal service. In two days I 
shall be out of England. Within a week you shall hear 
where. I long for your heart on mine, your dear eyes. 
You have faith in me, and I fly from you ! — I must be mad. 
Yet I feel calmly reasonable. I know that this is the thing 
to do. Some years hence a grey woman may return, to hear 
of a butterfly Diana, that had her day and disappeared. 
Better than a mewing and courtseying simulacrum of the 
woman — I drivel again. Adieu. I suppose I am not liable 
to capture and imprisonment until the day when my name 
is cited to appear. I have left London. This letter and I 
quit the scene by different routes — I would they were one. 
My beloved ! I have an ache — I think I am wronging you. 
I am not mistress of myself, and do as something within 
me, wiser than I, dictates. — You will write kindly. Write 
your whole heart. It is not compassion I want, I want j^ou. 
I can bear stripes from you. Let me hear Emma’s voice 

the true voice. This running away merits your re* 


THE CRISIS 


73 


I proaches. It will iook like — I have more to confess : 
t the tigress in me wishes it were! I should then have a 
■ reckless passion to fold me about, and the glory — infernal, 
if you name it so, and so it would be — of suffering for and 
with some one else. As it is, I am utterly solitary, sus- 
tained neither from above nor below, except within myself, 
and that is all fire and smoke, like their new engines. — I 
kiss this miserable sheet of paper. — Yes, I judge that I 
have run off a line — and what a line ! — which hardly 
shows a trace for breathing things to follow until they feel 
the transgression in wreck. How immensely nature seems 
to prefer men to women I — But this paper is happier- than 
the writer. 

“ Your Tony.” 

That was the end. Emma kissed it in tears. They had 
often talked of the possibility of a classic friendship 
between women, the alliance of a mutual devotedness 
men choose to doubt of. She caught herself accusing 
Tony of the lapse from friendship. Hither should the 
true friend have flown unerringly. 

The blunt ending of the letter likewise dealt a wound. 
She reperused it, perused and meditated. The flight of 
Mrs. Warwick ! She heard that cry — fatal ! But she had 
no means of putting a hand on her. — “Your Tony.” The 
coldness might be set down to exhaustion : it might, yet her 
not coming to her friend for counsel and love was a positive 
weight in the indifferent scale. She read the letter back- 
wards, and by snatches here and there ; many perusals and 
hours passed before the scattered creature exhibited in its 
pages came to her out of the flying threads of the web as 
her living Tony, whom she loved and prized, and was 
ready to defend against the world. By that time the fog 
had lifted ; she saw the sky on the borders of milky cloud- 
folds. Her invalid’s chill sensitiveness conceived a sym- 
pathy in the baring heavens, and lying on her sofa in the 
drawing-room she gained strength of meditative vision, 
weak though she was to help, through ceasing to brood on 
her wound and herself. She cast herself into her deai 
Tony’s feelings ; and thus it came, that she imagined Tony 
would visit The Crossways, where she kept souvenirs of 


n 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


her father, his cane, and his writing-desk, and a precious 
miniature of him hanging above it, before leaving England 
for ever. The fancy sprang to certainty ; every speculation 
confirmed it. Had Sir Lukin been at home she would have 
despatched him to The Crossways at once. The West wind 
blew, and gave her a view of the Downs beyond the weald 
from her southern window. She thought it even possible 
to drive there and reach the place, on the chance of her 
vivid suggestion, some time after nightfall ; but a walk 
across the room to try her forces was too convincing of her 
inability. She walked with an ebony silver-mounted stick, 
a present from Mr. Red worth. She was leaning on it when 
the card of Thomas Red worth was handed to her. 


CHAPTER VIII 

IN WHICH IS EXHIBITED HOW A PRACTICAL MAN AND A 
DIVINING WOMAN LEARN TO RESPECT ONE ANOTHER 

“You see, you are my crutch,” Lady Dunstane said to 
him, raising the stick in reminder of the present. 

He offered his arm and hurriedly informed her, to dispose 
of dull personal matter, that he had just landed. She 
looked at the clock. “Lukin is in town. You know the 
song : ‘ Alas, I scarce can go or creep While Lukin is away.* 
I do not doubt you have succeeded in your business over 
there. Ah ! Now I suppose you have confidence in your 
success. I should have predicted it, had you come to me:” 
She stood, either musing or in weakness, and said abruptly: 
“ Will you object to lunching at One o’clock ? ” 

“ The sooner the better,” said Redworth. She had sighed : 
her voice betrayed some agitation, strange in so serenely- 
minded a person. 

His partial acquaintance with the Herculean Sir Lukin’s 
reputation in town inspired a fear of his being about to 
receive admission to the distressful confidences of the wife, 
and he asked if Mrs. Warwick was well. The answer 
sounded ominous, with its accompaniment of evident pain .* 
“I think her health is good.” 


' 

A PRACTICAL MAN AND A DIVINING WOMAN 75 

Had they quarrelled ? He said he had not heard a word 
of Mrs. Warwick for several months. 

“ I heard from her this morning,” said Lady Dunstane, 
and motioned him to a chair beside the sofa, where she 
half reclined, closing her eyes. The sight of tears on the 
eyelashes frightened him. She roused herself to look at 
the clock. “Providence or accident, you are here,” she 
i Baid. “ I could not have prayed for the coming of a truer 
man. Mrs. Warwick is in great danger. . . . You know 
our love. She is the best of me, heart and soul. Her 
husband has chosen to act on vile suspicions — baseless, X 
could hold my hand in the fire and swear. She has enemies, 
or the jealous fury is on the man — I know little of him. 
He has commenced an action against her. He will rue it. 
But she . . . you understand this of women at least; — 
they are not cowards in all things ! — - but the horror of 
facing a public scandal : — my poor girl writes of the hate* 
fulness of having to act the complacent — put on her 
accustomed self ! She would have to go about, a mark for 
the talkers, and behave as if nothing were in the air — full 
of darts ! Oh, that general whisper ! — it makes a coup de 
massue — a gale to sink the bravest vessel : — and a woman 
must preserve her smoothest front : chat, smile — or else 1 

— Well, she shrinks from it. I should too. She is leaving 
the country.” 

“ Wrong ! cried Redworth. 

“Wrong indeed. She writes, that in two days she will 
be out of it. Judge , her as I do, though you are a man, I 
pray. You have seen the hunted hare. It is our education 

— we have something of the hare in us when the hounds 
are full cry. Our bravest, our best, have an impulse to run. 
‘By this, poor Wat far off upon a hill.* Shakespeare would 
have the divine comprehension. I have thought all round 
it and come back to him. She is one of Shakespeare’s 
women: another character, but one of his own : — another 
Hermione ! I dream of him — seeing her with that eye of 
steady flame. The bravest and best of us at bay in the 
world need an eye like his, to read deep and not be baffled 
by inconsistencies.” 

Insensibly Redworth blinked. His consciousness of an 
exalted compassion for the lady was heated by these flights 


T0 


DIANA OP THE CROSSWAYS 


of advocacy to feel that he was almost seated beside the 
sovereign poet thus eulogized, and he was of a modest 
nature. 

“But you are practical,” pursued Lady Dunstane, ob- 
serving signs that she took for impatience. “ You are 
thinking of what can be done. If Lukin were here I 
would send him to The Crossways without a moment’s 
delay, on the chance, the mere chance: — it shines to me! 
If 1 were only a little stronger! I fear I might break 
down, and it would be unfair to my husband. He has 
trouble enough with my premature infirmities already. I 
am certain she will go to The Crossways. Tony is one of 
the women who burn to give last kisses to things they 
love. And she has her little treasures hoarded there. 
She was born there. Her father died there. She is three 
parts Irish — superstitious in affection. I know her so 
well. At this moment I see her there. If not, she has 
grown unlike herself.” 

“Have you a stout horse in the stables?” Red worth 
asked. 

“You remember the mare Bertha ; you have ridden her.” 

“The mare would do, and better than a dozen horses.” 
He consulted his watch. “ Let me mount Bertha, I engage 
to deliver a letter at The Crossways to-night.” 

Lady Dunstane half inclined to act hesitation in accept- 
ing the aid she sought, but said : “ Will you find your way ? ” 

He spoke of three hours of daylight and a moon to rise. 
“She has often pointed out to me from your ridges where 
The Crossways lies, about three miles from the Downs, 
near a village named Storling, on the road to Brasted. 
The house has a small plantation of firs behind it, and a 
bit of river — rare for Sussex — to the right. An old 
straggling red brick house at Crossways, a stone’s throw 
from a fingerpost on a square of green: roads to Brasted, 
London, Wickford, Riddlehurst. I shall find it. Write 
what you have to say, my lady, and confide it to me. She 
shall have it to-night, if she ’s where you suppose. I ’ll 
go, with your permission, and take a look at the mare. 
Sussex roads are heavy in this damp weather, and the frost 
coming on won’t improve them for a tired beast. We 
haven’t our rails laid down there yet.” 


A PRACTICAL MAN AND A DIVINING WOMAN 77 


‘•You make me admit some virtues in the practical,” 
said Lady Dunstane; and had the poor fellow vollied forth 
a tale of the everlastingness of his passion for Diana, it 
would have touched her far less than his exact memory of 
Diana’s description of her loved birthplace. 

She wrote: 

“ I trust my messenger to tell you how I hang on you. 
I see my ship making for the rocks. You break your 
Emma’s heart. It will be the second wrong step. I shall 
not survive it. The threat has made me incapable of 
rushing to you, as I might have had strength to do yester- 
day. I am shattered, and I wait panting for Mr. Red- 
worth’s return with you . He has called, by accident, as 
we say. Trust to him. If ever heaven was active to 
avert a fatal mischance it is to-day. You will not stand 
against my supplication. It is my life I cry for. I have 
no more time. He starts. He leaves me to pray — like 
the mother seeing her child on the edge of the cliff. Come. 
This is your breast, my Tony! And your soul warns you 
it is right to come. Do rightly. Scorn other counsel — 
the coward’s. Come with our friend — the one man known 
to me who can be a friend of women. 

“Your Emma.” 

Red worth was in the room. “The mare’ll do it well,” 
he said. “ She has had her feed, and in five minutes will 
be saddled at the door.” 

“But you must eat, dear friend,” said the hostess. 

“I’ll munch at a packet of sandwiches on the way. 
There seems a chance, and the time for lunching may 
miss it.” 

“ You understand ... ? ” 

“Everything, I fancy.” 

“If she is there! ” 

“One break in the run will turn her back.” 

The sensitive invalid felt a blow in his following up 
the simile of the hunted hare for her friend, but it had a 
promise of hopefulness. And this was all that could be 
done by earthly agents, under direction of spiritual, a a 
her imagination encouraged her to believe. 


78 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

She saw him start, after fortifying him with a tumbler 
of choice Bordeaux, thinking how Tony would have said 
she was like a lady arming her knight for battle. On the 
back of the mare he passed her window, after lifting his 
hat, and he thumped at his breast-pocket, to show her 
where the letter housed safely. The packet of provision 
bulged on his hip, absurdly and blessedly to her sight, not 
unlike the man, in his combination of robust serviceable 
qualities, as she reflected during the later hours, until the 
sun fell on smouldering November woods, and sensations 
of the frost he foretold bade her remember that he had 
gone forth riding like a huntsman. His great-coat lay 
on a chair in the hall, and his travelling-bag was beside 
it. He had carried it up from the valley, expecting hos- 
pitality, and she had sent him forth half naked to weather 
a frosty November night! She called in the groom, whose 
derision of a great-coat for any gentleman upon Bertha, 
meaning work for the mare, appeased her remorsefulness. 
Brisby, the groom, reckoned how long the mare would take 
to do the distance to Storling, with a rider like Mr. Bed- 
worth on her back. By seven, Brisby calculated, Mr. 
Redworth would be knocking at the door of the Three 
Ravens Inn, at Storling, when the mare would have a 
decent grooming, and Mr. Redworth was not the gentle- 
man to let her be fed out of his eye. More than that, 
Brisby had some acquaintance with the people of the inn. 
He begged to inform her ladyship that he was half a 
Sussex man, though not exactly born in the county; his 
parents had removed to Sussex after the great event; and 
the Downs were his first field of horse-exercise, and no 
place in the world was like them, fair weather or foul, 
Summer or Winter, and snow ten feet deep in the gullies. 
The grandest air in England, he had heard say. 

His mistress kept him to the discourse, for the comfort 
of hearing hard bald matter-of-fact; and she was amused 
and rebuked by his assumption that she must be entertain- 
ing an anxiety about master’s favourite mare. But, ah! 
that Diana had delayed in choosing a mate; had avoided 
her disastrous union with perhaps a more imposing man, 
to see the true beauty of masculine character in Mr. Bed- 
worth, as he showed himself to-day. How could he have 


A PKACTICAL MAN AND A DIVINING WOMAN 79 

doubted succeeding? One grain more of faith in his 
energy, and Diana might have been mated to the right 
husband for her — an open-minded clear-faced English 
gentleman. Her speculative ethereal mind clung to bald 
matter-of-fact to-day. She would have vowed that it was 
the sole potentially heroical. Even Brisby partook of the 
reflected rays, and he was very benevolently considered by 
her. She dismissed him only when his recounting of the 
stages of Bertha’s journey began to fatigue her and deaden 
the medical efficacy of him and his like. Stretched on the 
sofa, she watched the early sinking sun in South-western 
cloud, and the changes from saffron to intensest crimson, 
the crown of a November evening, and one of frost. Ked- 
worth struck on a southward line from chalk-ridge to sand, 
where he had a pleasant footing in familiar country, under 
beeches that browned the ways, along beside a meadow- 
brook fed by the heights, through pines and across deep 
sand-ruts to full view of weald and Downs. Diana had 
been with him here in her maiden days. The coloured 
back of a coach put an end to that dream. He lightened 
his pocket, surveying the land as he munched. A favour- 
able land for rails: and she had looked over it: and he 
was now becoming a wealthy man: and she was a married 
woman straining the leash. His errand would not bear 
examination, it seemed such a desperate long shot. He 
shut his inner vision on it, and pricked forward. When 
the burning sunset shot waves above the juniper and yews 
behind him, he was far on the weald, trotting down an 
interminable road. That the people opposing railways 
were not people of business, was his reflection, and it 
returned persistently: for practical men, even the most 
devoted among them, will think for themselves; their 
army, which is the rational, calls them to its banners, in 
opposition to the sentimental; and Redworth joined it in 
the abstract, summoning the horrible state of the roads 
to testify against an enemy wanting almost in common 
humaneness. A slip of his excellent stepper in one of the 
half-frozen pits of the highway was the principal cause of 
his confusion of logic; she was half on her knees. Be- 
yond the market town the roads were so bad that he quitted 
them, and with the indifference of an engineer, struck a 


80 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


line of his own South-eastward over fields and ditches, 
favoured by a round horizon moon on his left. So for a 
couple of hours he went ahead over rolling fallow land to 
the meadow-flats and a pale shining of freshets; then hit 
on a lane skirting the water, and reached an amphibious 
village; five miles from Storling, he was informed, and a 
clear traverse of lanes, not to be mistaken, “if he kept a 
sharp eye open.” The sharpness of his eyes was divided 
between the sword-belt of the starry Hunter and the shift- 
ing lanes that zig-zagged his course below. The Downs 
were softly illumined; still it amazed him to think of a 
woman like Diana Warwick having an attachment to this 
district, so hard of yield, mucky, featureless, fit but for 
the rails she sided with her friend in detesting. Reason- 
able women, too! The moon stood high on her march as 
he entered Storling. He led his good beast to the stables 
of The Three Ravens, thanking her and caressing her. 
The ostler conjectured from the look of the mare that he 
had been out with the hounds and lost his way. It 
appeared to Redworth singularly, that near the ending of 
a wild goose chase, his plight was pretty well described 
by the fellow. However, he had to knock at the door of 
The Crossways now, in the silent night time, a certainly 
empty house, to his fancy. He fed on a snack of cold meat 
and tea, standing, and set forth, clearly directed, “if he 
kept a sharp eye open.” Hitherto he had proved his capa- 
city, and he rather smiled at the repetition of the formula 
to him, of all men. A turning to the right was taken, one 
to the left, and through the churchyard, out of the gate, 
round to the right, and on. By this route, after an hour, 
he found himself passing beneath the bare chestnuts of the 
churchyard wall of Storling, and the sparkle of the edges 
of the dead chestnut-leaves at his feet reminded him of 
the very ideas he had entertained when treading them. 
The loss of an hour strung him to pursue the chase in 
earnest, and he had a beating of the heart as he thought 
that it might be serious. Hp rpoolW.ted thinking it so at 
Copsley. The long ride, and nightta'd w ith nothing in 
view, had obscured his mind to the possible tbp 

thick obstruction of the probable; again the possible wave<i 
it= mar.cdi-light. To help in saving her from a fatal step, 


A PRACTICAL MAN AND A DIVINING WOMAN 81 


supposing a dozen combinations of the conditional mood, 
became his fixed object, since here he was — of that there 
was no doubt; and he was not here to play the fool, though 
the errand were foolish. He entered the churchyard, 
crossed the shadow of the tower, and hastened along the 
path, fancying he beheld a couple of figures vanishing 
before him. He shouted; he hoped to obtain directions 
from these natives: the moon was bright, the gravestones 
legible; but no answer came back, and the place appeared 
to belong entirely to the dead. “I’ve frightened them,” 
he thought. They left a queerish sensation in his frame. 
A ride down to Sussex to see ghosts would be an odd 
experience; but an undigested dinner of tea is the very 
grandmother of ghosts; and he accused it of confusing 
him, sight and mind. Out of the gate, now for the turn- 
ing to the right, and on. He turned. He must have 
previously turned wrongly somewhere — and where? A 
light in a cottage invited him to apply for the needed 
directions. The door was opened by a woman, who had 
never heard tell of The Crossways, nor had her husband, 
nor any of the children crowding round them. A voice 
within ejaculated : “ Crassways ! ” and soon upon the grat- 
ing of a chair, an old man, whom the woman named her 
lodger, by way of introduction, presented himself with his 
hat on, saying: “I knows the spot they calls Crassways,” 
and he led. Redworth understood the intention that a job 
was to be made of it, and submitting, said: “To the right, 
I think.” He was bidden to come along, if he wanted 
“they Crassways,” and from the right they turned to the 
left, and further sharp round, and on to a turn, where the 
old man, otherwise incommunicative, said: “There, down 
thik theer road, and a post in the middle.” 

“I want a house, not a post!” roared Redworth, spying 
a bare space. 

The old man despatched a finger travelling to his nob. 
“Haw, there’s ne’er a house. But that’s crassways fo A ' 
four roads, if it ’s crassways you wants.” 

They journeyed backward. They were in such a maze 
of lanes that the old man was master, and Redworth vowed 
to be rid of him at the first cottage. This, however, they 
were long in reaching, and the old man was promptly 


82 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


through the garden-gate, hailing the people and securing 
information, before Redworth could well hear. He smiled 
at the dogged astuteness of a dense-headed old creature 
determined to establish a claim to his fee. They struck a 
lane sharp to the left. 

“You're Sussex?” Redworth asked him, and was 
answered: “Naw; the Sheers.” 

Emerging from deliberation, the old man said: “Ah *m 
a Hampshireman.” 

“ A capital county ! ” 

“ Heigh ! ” The old man heaved his chest. “ Once ! ” 

“Why, what has happened to it? ” 

“ Once it were a capital county, I say. Hah ! you asks 
me what have happened to it. You take and go and look 
at it now. And down heer’11 be no better soon, I tells 
'em. When ah was a boy, old Hampshire was a proud 
country, wi' the old coaches and the old squires, and 
Harvest Homes, and Christmas merryings. — Cutting up 
the land! There ’s no pride in livin' theer, nor anywhere, 
as I sees, now.” 

“You mean the railways.” 

“ It 's the Devil come up and abroad ower all England! ” 
exclaimed the melancholy ancient patriot. 

A little cheering was tried on him, but vainly. He saw 
with unerring distinctness the triumph of the Foul Poten- 
tate, nay his personal appearance “ in they theer puffin' 
engines.” The country which had produced Andrew Hedger, 
as he stated his name to be, would never show the same 
old cricketing commons it did when he was a boy. Old 
England, he declared, was done for. 

When Pedworth applied to his watch under the brilliant 
moonbeams, he discovered that he had been listening to 
this natural outcry of a decaying and shunted class full 
three-quarters of an hour, and The Crossways was not in 
sight. He remonstrated. The old man plodded along. 
“We must do as we *re directed,” he said. 

Further walking brought them to a turn. Any turn 
seemed hopeful. Another turn offered the welcome sight 
of a blazing doorway on a rise of ground off the road. 
Approaching it, the old man requested him to “bide a bit,” 
and stalked the ascent at long strides. A vigorous old 


A PRACTICAL MAN AND A DIVINING WOMAN 83 


fellow. Redworth waited below, observing how he joined 
the group at the lighted door, and, as it was apparent, put 
his question of the whereabout of The Crossways. Finally, 
in extreme impatience, he walked up to the group of spec- 
tators. They were all, and Andrew Hedger among them, 
the most entranced and profoundly reverent, observing the 
dissection of a pig. 

Unable to awaken his hearing, Redworth jogged his 
arm, and the shake was ineffective until it grew in force. 

“I ’ve no time to lose; have they told you the way? ” 

Andrew Hedger yielded his arm. He slowly withdrew 
his intent fond gaze from the fair outstretched white car- 
case, and with drooping eyelids, he said: “Ah could eat 
hog a solid hower!”. 

He had forgotten to ask the way, intoxicated by the 
aspect of the pig; and when he did ask it, he was hard of 
understanding, given wholly to his last glimpses. 

Redworth got the directions. He would have dismissed 
Mr. Andrew Hedger, but there was no doing so. “ I ’ll 
show ye on to the Crossways House,” the latter said, imply- 
ing that he had already earned something by showing him 
the Crossways post. 

“Hog’s my feed,” said Andrew Hedger. The gastric 
springs of eloquence moved him to discourse, and he un- 
burdened himself between succulent pauses. “ They ’ve 
killed him early. He ’s fat; and he might ha’ been fatter. 
But he ’s fat. They ’ve got their Christmas ready, that 
they have. Lord! you should see the chitterlings, and 
the sausages hung up to and along, the beams. That ’s a 
crown for any dwellin’! They runs ’em round the top 
of the room — it ’s like a May -day wreath in old times. 
Home-fed hog! They ’ve a treat in store, they have. 
And snap your fingers at the world for many a long day. 
And the hams! They cure their own hams at that house. 
Old style ! That ’s what I say of a hog. He ’s good from 
end to end, and beats a Christian hollow. Everybody 
knows it and owns it.” 

Redworth was getting tired. In sympathy with current 
conversation, he said a word for the railways: they would 
certainly make the flesh of swine cheaper, bring a heap 
ot hams into the market. But Andrew Hedger remarked 


84 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


with contempt that he had not much opinion of foreign 
hams: nobody knew what they fed on. Hog, he said, 
would feed on anything, where there was no choice — 
they had wonderful stomachs for food. Only, when they 
had a choice, they left the worst for last, and home-fed 
filled them with stuff to make good meat and fat — “what 
we calls prime bacon. ” As it is not right to damp a native 
enthusiasm, Red worth let him dilate on his theme, and 
mused on his boast to eat hog a solid hour , which roused 
some distant classic recollection : — an odd jumble. 

They crossed the wooden bridge of a flooded stream. 

“Now ye have it,” said the hog-worshipper; “that may 
be the house, I reckon.” 

A dark mass of building, with the moon behind it, 
shining in spires through a mound of firs, met Redworth’s 
gaze. The windows all were blind, no smoke rose from 
the chimneys. He noted the dusky square of green, and 
the finger-post signalling the centre of the four roads. 
Andrew Hedger repeated that it was the Crossways house, 
ne’er a doubt. Redworth paid him his expected fee, where- 
upon Andrew, shouldering off, wished him a hearty good 
night, and forthwith departed at high pedestrian pace, 
manifestly to have a concluding look at the beloved 
anatomy. 

There stood the house. Absolutely empty! thought 
Redworth. The sound of the gate-bell he rang was like 
an echo to him. The gate was unlocked. He felt a return 
of his queer churchyard sensation when walking up the 
garden-path, in the shadow of the house. Here she was 
born: here her father died: and this was the station of 
her dreams, as a girl at school near London and in Paris. 
Her heart was here. He looked at the windows facing 
the Downs with dead eyes. The vivid idea of her was a 
phantom presence, and cold, assuring him that the bodily 
Diana was absent. Had Lady Dunstane guessed rightly, 
he might perhaps have been of service ! 

Anticipating the blank silence, he rang the house-bell. 
It seemed to set wagging a weariful tongue in a corpse. 
The bell did its duty to the last note, and one thin revival 
stroke, for a finish, as in days when it responded livingly 
to the guest. He pulled, and had the reply, just the 


A PRACTICAL MAN AND A DIVINING WOMAN 85 

same, with the faint terminal touch, resembling exactly a 
“There ! ” at the close of a voluble delivery in the nega- 
tive. Absolutely empty. He pulled and pulled. The 
bell wagged, wagged. This had been a house of a witty 
host, a merry girl, junketting guests; a house of hilarious 
thunders, lightnings of fun and fancy. Death never seemed 
more voiceful than in that wagging of the bell. 

For conscience’ sake, as became a trusty emissary, he 
walked round to the back of the house, to verify the total 
emptiness. His apprehensive despondency had said that 
it was absolutely empty, but upon consideration he sup- 
posed the house must have some guardian: likely enough, 
an old gardener and his wife, lost in deafness double- 
shotted by sleep! There was no sign of them. The night 
air waxed sensibly crisper. He thumped the back-doors. 
Blank hollowness retorted on the blow. He banged and 
kicked. The violent altercation with wood and wall lasted 
several minutes, ending as it had begun. Flesh may 
worry, but is sure to be worsted in such an argument. 

“Well, my dear lady!” — Redworth addressed Lady 
Dunstane aloud, while driving his hands into his pockets 
for warmth — “ we ’ve done what we could. The next best 
thing is to go to bed and see what morning brings us.” 

The temptation to glance at the wild divinings of dreamy- 
witted women from the point of view of the practical man, 
was aided by the intense frigidity of the atmosphere in 
leading him to criticize a sex not much used to the exer- 
cise of brains. “ And they hate railways ! ” He associated 
them, in the matter of intelligence, with Andrew Hedger 
and Company. They sank to the level of the temperature 
in his esteem — as regarded their intellects. He approved 
their warmth of heart. The nipping of the victim’s toes 
and finger-tips testified powerfully to that. 

Round to the front of the house at a trot, he stood in 
moonlight. Then, for involuntarily he now did every- 
thing running, with a dash up the steps he seized the sul- 
len pendant bell-handle, and worked it pumpwise, till he 
perceived a smaller bell-knob beside the door, at which 
he worked piston- wise. Pump and piston, the hurly-burly 
and the tinkler created an alarm to scare cat and mouse 
and Cardinal spider, all that run or weave in desolate 


66 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


houses, with the good result of a certain degree of heat to 
his frame, hie ceased, panting. No stir within, nor light. 
That white stare of windows at the moon was undisturbed. 

The Downs were like a wavy robe of shadowy grey silk. 
No wonder that she had loved to look on them ! 

And it was no wonder that Andrew Hedger enjoyed 
prime bacon. Bacon frizzling, fat rashers of real home- 
fed on the fire — none of your foreign — suggested a genial 
refreshment and resistance to antagonistic elements. Nor 
was it, granting health, granting a sharp night — the,- 
temperature at least fifteen below zero — an excessive 
boast for a man to say he could go on eating for a solid 
hour. 

These were notions darting through a half nourished 
gentleman nipped in the frame by a severely frosty night. 
Truly a most beautiful night! She would have delighted 
to see it here. The Downs were like floating islands, like 
fairy -laden vapours; solid, as Andrew Hedger’s hour of 
eating; visionary, as too often his desire! 

Redworth muttered to himself, after taking the picture 
of the house and surrounding country from the sward, that 
he thought it about the sharpest night he had ever encoun- 
tered in England. He was cold, hungry, dispirited, and 
astoundingly stricken with an incapacity to separate any 
of his thoughts from old Andrew Hedger. Nature was at 
her pranks upon him. 

He left the garden briskly, as to the legs, and reluc- 
tantly. He would have liked to know whether Diana had 
recently visited the house, or was expected. It could be 
learnt in the morning; but his mission was urgent and he 
on the wings of it. He was vexed and saddened. 

Scarcely had he closed the garden-gate when the noise 
of an opening window arrested him, and he called. The 
answer was in a feminine voice, youngish, not disagreeable, 
though not Diana’s. 

He heard none of the words, but rejoined in a bawl: 
" Mrs. Warwick ! — Mr. Redworth ! ” 

That was loud enough for the deaf or the dead 

The window closed. He went to the door and waited. 
It swung wide to him; and, O marvel of a woman’s 
cxi a woman! there stood Diana. 


A POSITION OF DELICACY 


87 


CHAPTER IX 

SHOWS HOW A POSITION OP DELICACY FOR A LADY AND 
GENTLEMAN WAS MET IN SIMPLE FASHION WITHOUT 
HURT TO EITHER 

Redworth’s impulse was to laugh for very gladness of 
heart, as he proffered excuses for his tremendous alarums : 
and in doing so, the worthy gentleman imagined he must 
have persisted in clamouring for admission because he 
suspected, that if at home, she would require a violent 
summons to betray herself. It was necessary to him to 
follow his abashed sagacity up to the mark of his happy 
animation. 

“Had I known it was you!” said Diana, bidding him 
enter the passage. She wore a black silk mantilla and 
was warmly covered. 

She called to her maid Danvers, whom Redworth remem- 
bered: a firm woman of about forty, wrapped, like her 
mistress, in head-covering, cloak, scarf, and shawl. Tell- 
ing her to scour the kitchen for firewood, Diana led into 
a sitting-room. “ I need not ask — • you have come from 
Lady Dunstane,” she said. “Is she well?” 

“She is deeply anxious.” 

“You are cold. Empty houses are colder than out of 
doors. You shall soon have a fire.” 

She begged him to be seated. 

The small glow of candle-light made her dark rich 
colouring orange in shadow. 

“ House and grounds are open to a tenant,” she resumed. 
“I say good-bye to them to-morrow morning. The old 
couple who are in charge sleep in the village to-night. I 
did not want them here. You have quitted the Govern- 
ment service, I think?” 

“A year or so since.” 

“ When did you return from America? ” 

“Two days back.” 

“And paid your visit to Copsley immediately?” 

“As early as I could.” 


88 


iJIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ That was true friendliness. You have a letter for me ? 19 

“I have.” 

He put his hand to his pocket for the letter. 

“Presently,” she said. She divined the contents, and 
nursed her resolution to withstand them. Danvers had 
brought firewood and coal. Orders were given to her, and 
in spite of the opposition of the maid and intervention of 
the gentleman, Diana knelt at the grate, observing: “Allow 
me to do this. I can lay and light a fire.” 

He was obliged to look on : she was a woman who spoke 
her meaning. She knelt, handling paper, firewood and 
matches, like a housemaid. Danvers proceeded on her 
mission, and Redworth eyed Diana in the first fire-glow. 
He could have imagined a Madonna on an old black Spanish 
canvas. 

The act of service was beautiful in gracefulness, and 
her simplicity in doing the work touched it spiritually. 
He thought, as she knelt there, that never had he seen 
how lovely and how charged with mystery her features 
were; the dark large eyes full on the brows; the proud 
line of a straight nose in right measure to the bow of the 
lips; reposeful red lips, shut, and their curve of the slum- 
ber-smile at the corners. Her forehead was broad; the 
chin of a sufficient firmness to sustain that noble square; 
the brows marked by a soft thick brush to the temples; 
her black hair plainly drawn along her head to the knot, 
revealed by the mantilla fallen on her neck. 

Elegant in plainness, the classic poet would have said 
of her hair and dress. She was of the women whose wits 
are quick in everything they do. That which was proper 
to her position, complexion, and the hour, surely marked 
her appearance. Unaccountably this night, the fair fleshly 
presence over-weighted her intellectual distinction, to an 
observer bent on vindicating her innocence. Or rather, he 
saw the hidden in the visible. 

Owner of such a woman, and to lose her! Redworth 
pitied the husband. 

The crackling flames reddened her whole person. Gaz 
ing, he remembered Lady Dunstane saying of her once, 
that in anger she had the nostrils of a war horse. The 
nostrils now were faintly alive under some sensitive im 


A POSITION OF DELICACY 


89 


pression of her musings. The olive cheeks, pale as she 
stood in the doorway, were flushed by the fire -beams, 
though no longer with their swarthy central rose, tropic 
flower of a pure and abounding blood, as it had seemed. 
She was now beset by battle. His pity for her, and his 
eager championship, overwhelmed the spirit of compassion 
for the foolish wretched husband. Dolt, the man must be, 
Redworth thought; and he asked inwardly, Did the miser- 
able tyrant suppose of a woman like this, that she would 
be content to shine as a candle in a grated lanthorn? The 
generosity of men speculating upon other men’s posses- 
sions is known. Yet the man who loves a woman has 
to the full the husband’s jealousy of her good name. And 
a lover, that without the claims of the alliance, can be 
wounded on her behalf, is less distracted in his homage 
by the personal luminary, to which man’s manufacture of 
balm and incense is mainly drawn when his love is 
wounded. That contemplation of her incomparable beauty, 
with the multitude of his ideas fluttering round it, did 
somewhat shake the personal luminary in Redworth. He 
was conscious of pangs. The question bit him: How far 
had she been indiscreet or wilful? and the bite of it was 
a keen acid to his nerves. A woman doubted by her hus- 
band, is always, and even to her champions in the first 
hours of the noxious rumour, until they have solidified in 
confidence through service, a creature of the wilds, marked 
for our ancient running. Nay, more than a cynical world, 
these latter will be sensible of it. The doubt casts her 
forth, the general yelp drags her down; she runs like the 
prey of the forest under spotting branches ; clear if we 
can think so, but it has to be thought in devotedness : her 
character is abroad. Redworth bore a strong resemblance 
to his fellowmen, except for his power of faith in this 
woman. Nevertheless it required the superbness of her 
beauty and the contrasting charm of her humble posture 
of kneeling by the fire, to set him on his right track of 
mind. He knew and was sure of her. He dispersed the 
unhallowed fry in attendance upon any stirring of the rep- 
tile part of us, to look at her with the eyes of a friend. 
And if . . . ! — a little mouse of a thought scampered out. 
of one of the chambers of his head and darted along the 


90 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


passages, fetching a sweat to his brows. Well, whatsoever 
the fact, his heart was hers! He hoped he could be char- 
itable to women. 

She rose from her knees and said: “Now, please, give 
me the letter.” 

He was entreated to excuse her for consigning him to 
firelight when she left the room. 

Danvers brought in a dismal tallow candle, remarking 
that her mistress had not expected visitors : her mistress 
had nothing but tea and bread and butter to offer him. 
Danvers uttered no complaint of her sufferings; happy in 
being the picture of them. 

“I’m not hungry,” said he. 

A plate of Andrew Hedger’s own would not have tempted 
him. The foolish frizzle of bacon sang in his ears as he 
walked from end to end of the room; an illusion of his 
fancy pricked by a frost-edged appetite. But the antici- 
pated contest with Diana checked and numbed the craving. 

Was Warwick a man to proceed to extremities on a mad 
suspicion? — What kind of proof had he? 

Redworth summoned the portrait of Mr. Warwick be- 
fore him, and beheld a sweeping of close eyes in cloud, 
a long upper lip in cloud; the rest of him was all cloud. 
As usual with these conjurations of a face, the index of 
the nature conceived by him displayed itself, and no more ; 
but he took it for the whole physiognomy, and pronounced 
of the husband thus delineated, that those close eyes of 
the long upper lip would both suspect and proceed madly. 

He was invited by Danvers to enter the dining-room. 

There Diana joined him. 

“ The best of a dinner on bread and butter is, that one 
is ready for supper soon after it,” she said, swimming to 
the tea-tray. “You have dined?” 

“At the inn,” he replied. 

“The Three Ravens! When my father’s gueo^s from 
London flooded The Crossways, The Three Ravens pro- 
vided the overflow with beds. On nights like this I have 
got up and scraped the frost from my window-panes to see 
them step into the old fly, singing some song of his. The 
inn had a good reputation for hospitality in those days. J 
hope they treated you well? ” 


A POSITION OF DELICACY 


91 


“ Excellently,” said Bedworth, taking an enormous mouth- 
ful, while his heart sank to see that she who smiled to 
encourage his eating had been weeping. But she also 
consumed her bread and butter. 

“ That poor maid of mine is an instance of a woman able 
to do things against the grain,” she said. “Danvers is a 
foster-child of luxury. She loves it; great houses, plen- 
tiful meals, and the crowd of twinkling footjnen’s calves. 
Yet you see her here in a desolate house, consenting to 
cold, and I know not what, terrors of ghosts! poor soul. 
I have some mysterious attraction for her. She would not 
let me come alone. I should have had to hire some old 
Storling grannam, or retain the tattling keepers of the 
house. She loves her native country too, and disdains the 
foreigner. My tea you may trust.” 

Bedworth had not a doubt of it. He was becoming a 
tea-taster. The merit of warmth pertained to the bever- 
age. “I think you get your tea from Scoppin’s, in the 
City,” he said. 

That was the warehouse for Mrs. Warwick’s tea. They 
conversed of Teas; the black, the green, the mixtures; 
each thinking of the attack to come, and the defence. 
Meantime, the cut bread and butter having flown, Bedworth 
attacked the loaf. He apologized. 

“ Oh ! pay me a practical compliment,” Diana said, and 
looked really happy at his unfeigned relish of her simple 
fare. 

She had given him one opportunity in speaking of her 
maid’s love of native country. But it came too early. 

“ They say that bread and butter is fattening,” he 
remarked. 

“ You preserve the mean,” said she. 

He admitted that his health was good. For some little 
time, to his vexation at the absurdity, she kept him talking 
of himself. So flowing was she, and so sweet the motion 
of her mouth in utterance, that he followed her lead, and 
he said odd things and corrected them. He had to describe 
his ride to her. 

“ Yes ! the view of the Downs from Dewhurst,” she 
exclaimed. “ Or any point along the ridge. Emma and I 
once drove there in Summer, with clotted cream from her 


92 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


dairy, and we bought fresh-plucked wortleberries, an(> 
stewed them in a hollow of the furzes, and ate them with 
ground biscuits and the clotted cream iced, and thought it 
a luncheon for seraphs. Then you dropped to the road 
round under the sand-heights — and meditated railways !” 

“ Just a notion or two.” 

“ You have been very successful in America ? ” 

“ Successful ; perhaps ; we exclude extremes in our cal- 
culations of the still problematical.” 

“I am sure,” said she, “you always have faith in your 
calculations.” 

Her innocent archness dealt him a stab sharper than any 
he had known since the day of his hearing of her engage- 
ment. He muttered of his calculations being human ; he 
was as much of a fool as other men — more ! 

“ Oh ! no,” said she. 

“ Positive^.” 

“ I cannot think it.” 

“ I know it.” 

“ Mr. Redworth, you will never persuade me to believe 
it.” 

He knocked a rising groan on the head, and rejoined: 
“ I hope I may not have to say so to-night.” 

Diana felt the edge of the dart. “ And meditating rail- 
ways, you scored our poor land of herds and flocks ; and 
night fell, and the moon sprang up, and on you came. It 
was clever of you to find your way by the moonbeams.” 

“That’s about the one thing I seem fit for ! ” 

“ But what delusion is this, in the mind of a man suc- 
ceeding in everything he does ! ” cried Diana, curious 
despite her wariness. “ Is there to be the revelation of a 
hairshirt ultimately? — a Journal of Confessions? You 
succeeded in everything you aimed at, and broke your 
heart over one chance miss ? ” 

“ My heart is not of the stuff to break,” he said, and 
laughed off her fortuitous thrust straight into it. “ Another 
cup, yes. I came ...” 

“By night,” said she, “and cleverly found your way, 
ind dined, at The Three Ravens, and walked to The 
Crossways, and met no ghosts.” 

“ On the contrary — or at least I saw a couple.” 


A POSITION OF DELICACY 93 

“ Tell me of them ; we breed them here. We sell them 
periodically to the newspapers. ” 

“Well, I started them in their natal locality. I saw 
them, going down the churchyard, and bellowed after them 
with all my lungs. I wanted directions to The Crossways ; 
I had missed my way at some turning. In an instant they 
were vapour.” 

Diana smiled. “ It was indeed a voice to startle delicate 
apparitions ! So do roar Hyrcanean tigers, Pyramus and 
Thisbe-slaying lions ! One of your ghosts carried a loaf of 
bread, and dropped it in fright; one carried a pound of 
fresh butter for home consumption. They were in the 
churchyard for one in passing to kneel at her father’s grave 
and kiss his tombstone.” 

She bowed her head, forgetful of her guard. 

The pause presented an opening. Redworth left his 
chair and walked to the mantelpiece. It was easier to 
him to speak, not facing her. 

“ You have read Lady Dunstane’s letter,” he began. 

She nodded. “ I have.” 

“ Can you resist her appeal to you ? ” 

“ I must.” 

“She is not in a condition to bear it well. You will 
pardon me, Mrs. Warwick . . .” 

“Fully! Fully!” 

“I venture to offer merely practical advice- You have 
thought of it all, but have not felt it. In these cases, the 
one thing to do is to make a stand. Lady Dunstane has a 
clear head. She sees what has to be endured by you. 
Consider: she appeals to me to bring you her letter. 
Would she have chosen me, or any man, for her messenger, 
if it had not appeared to her a matter of life and death? — 
You count me among your friends.” 

“ One of the truest.” 

“ Here are two, then, and your own good sense. For I 
do not believe it to be a question of courage.” 

" He has commenced. Let him carry it out,” said Diana. 

Her desperation could have added the cry — And give 
me freedom ! That was the secret in her heart. She had 
struck on the hope for the detested yoke to be broken at 
any cost. 


94 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ I decline to meet his charges. I despise them. If my 
friends have faith in me — and they may! — I want 
nothing more.” 

“ Well, I won’t talk commonplaces about the world,” 
said Redworth. “We can none of us afford to have it 
against us. Consider a moment: to your friends you are 
the Diana Merion they knew, and they will not suffer an 
injury to your good name without a struggle. But if you 
fly ? You leave the dearest you have to the whole brunt 
of it.” 

“ They will, if they love me.” 

“ They will. But think of the shock to her. Lady 
Dunstane reads you . . 

“ Not quite. No, not if she even wishes me to stay ! ” 
said Diana. 

He was too intent on his pleading to perceive a signifi- 
. cation. 

“ She reads you as clearly in the dark as if you were 
present with her.” 

“Oh! why am I not ten years older!” Diana cried, and 
tried to face round to him, and stopped paralyzed. “ Ten 
years older, I could discuss my situation, as an old woman 
of the world, and use my wits to defend myself.” 

“And then you would not dream of flight before it ! ” 

“No, she does not read me: no! She saw that I might 
come to The Crossways. She — no one but myself can 
see the wisdom of my holding aloof, in contempt of this 
baseness.” 

“ And of allowing her to sink under that which your 
presence would arrest. Her strength will not support it.” 

“ Emma ! Oh, cruel ! ” Diana sprang up to give play to 
her limbs. She dropped on another chair. “ Go I must, I 
cannot turn back. She saw my old attachment to this 
place. It was not difficult to guess . . . Who but I can 
see the wisest course for me ! ” 

“It comes to this, that the blow aimed at you in your 
absence will strike her, and mortally,” said Redworth. 

“Then I say it is terrible to have a friend,” said Diana, 
with her bosom heaving. 

“Friendship, I fancy, means one heart between two.” 

His unstressed observation hit a bell in her head, and set 


THE CONFLICT OF THE NIGHT 


95 


it reverberating. She and Emma had spoken, written, the 
very words. She drew forth her Emma’s letter from under 
her left breast, and read some half-blinded lines. 

Red worth immediately prepared to leave her to her 
feelings — trustier guides than her judgement in this crisis. 

“ Adieu, for the night, Mrs. Warwick/’ he said, and was 
guilty of eulogizing the judgement he thought erratic for the 
moment. “Night is a calm adviser. Let me presume to 
come again in the morning. I dare not go back without 
you.” 

She looked up. As they faced together each saw that the 
other had passed through a furnace, scorching enough to 
him, though hers was the delicacy exposed. The reflection 
had its weight with her during the night. 

“Danvers is getting ready a bed for you; she is airing 
linen,” Diana said. But the bed was declined, and the 
hospitality was not pressed. The offer of it seemed to him 
significant of an unwary cordiality and thoughtlessness of 
tattlers that might account possibly for many things — 
supposing a fool or madman, or malignants, to interpret 
them. 

“ Then, good night,” said she. 

They joined hands. He exacted no promise that she 
would be present in the morning to receive him ; and it was 
a consolation to her desire for freedom, until she reflected 
on the perfect confidence it implied, and felt as a quivering 
butterfly impalpably pinned. 


CHAPTER X 

THE CONFLICT OF THE NIGHT 

Her brain was a steam-wheel throughout the night; 
everything that could be thought of was tossed, nothing 
grasped. 

The unfriendliness of the friends who sought to retain 
her recurred. For look — to fly could not be interpreted as 
a flight. It was but a stepping aside, a disdain of defend* 


90 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


ing herself, and a wrapping herself in her dignity. Women 
would be with her. She called on the noblest of them to 
justify the course she chose, and they did, in an almost 
audible murmur. 

And 0 the rich reward. A black archway-gate swung 
open to the glittering fields of freedom. 

Emma was not of the chorus. Emma meditated as an 
invalid. How often had Emma bewailed to her that the 
most grievous burden of her malady was her fatal tendency 
to brood sickly upon human complications ! She could not 
see the blessedness of the prospect of freedom to a woman 
abominably yoked. What if a miserable woman were 
dragged through mire to reach it! Married, the mire was 
her portion, whatever she might do. That man — but pass 
him ! 

And that other — the dear, the kind, careless, high- 
hearted old friend. He could honestly protest his guiltless- 
ness, and would smilingly leave the case to go its ways. Of 
this she was sure, that her decision and her pleasure would 
be his. They were tied to the stake. She had already 
tasted some of the mortal agony. Did it matter whether 
the flames consumed her ? 

Reflecting on the interview with Redworth, though she 
had performed her part in it placidly, her skin burned. It 
was the beginning of tortures if she stayed in England. 

- By staying to defend herself she forfeited her attitude of 
dignity and lost all chance of her reward. And name the 
sort of world it is, dear friends, for which we are to sacrifice 
our one hope of freedom, that we may preserve our fair 
fame in it ! 

Diana cried aloud, “My freedom! ” feeling as a butterfly 
flown out of a box to stretches of sunny earth beneath 
spacious heavens. Her bitter marriage, joyless in all its 
chapters, indefensible where the man was right as well as 
where insensately wrong, had been imprisonment. She 
excused him down to his last madness, if only the bonds 
were broken. Here, too, in this very house of her happi- 
ness with her father, she had bound herself to the man : 
voluntarily, quite inexplicably. Voluntarily, as we say. 
But there must be a spell upon us at times. Upon young 
women there certainly is* 


THE CONFLICT OF THE NIGHT 


97 


The wild brain of Diana, armed by her later enlightenment 
as to the laws of life and nature, dashed in revolt at the 
laws of the world when she thought of the forces, natural 
and social, urging young women to marry and be bound to 
the end. 

It should be a spotless world which is thus ruthless. 

But were the world impeccable it would behave more 
generously. 

The world is ruthless, dear friends, because the world is V 
hypocrite!. The world cannot afford to be magnanimous, 
or even just. — - 

Her dissensions with her husband, their differences of 
opinion, and puny wranglings, hoistings of two standards, 
reconciliations for the sake of decency, breaches of the 
truce, and his detested meanness, the man behind the 
mask ; and glimpses of herself too, the half-known, half- 
suspected, developing creature claiming to be Diana, and 
unlike her dreamed Dianai deformed by marriage, irritable, 
acerb, rebellious, constantly justifiable against him, but not 
in her own mind, and therefore accusing him of the double 
crime o f provoking her and perverting her — these were 
the troops defiling through her head while she did battle 
with the hypocrite world. 

One painful sting was caused by the feeling that she 
could have loved — whom ? An ideal. Had he, the ima- 
gined but unvisioned, been her yoke-fellow, would she now 
lie raising caged-beast cries in execration of the yoke ? 
She would not now be seeing herself as hare, serpent, 
tigress ! The hypothesis was reviewed in negatives : she 
had barely a sense of softness, just a single little heave of 
the bosom, quivering upward and leadenly sinking, when 
she glanced at a married Diana heartily mated. The 
regrets of the youthful for a life sailing away under medi- 
cal sentence of death in the sad eyes of relatives resemble 
it. She could have loved. Good-bye to that ! 

A woman’s brutallest tussle with the world was upon 
her. She was in the arena of the savage claws, flung there 
by the man who of all others should have protected 
from them. And what had she done to deserve it ? 
listened to the advocate pleading her case ; she primed him 
to admit the charges, to say the worst, in contempt of legal 


98 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

prudence, and thereby expose her transparent honesty. 
The very things awakening a mad suspicion proved her 
innocence. But was she this utterly simple person ? Oh, 
no ! She was the Diana of the pride in her power of fenc* 
ing with evil — by no means of the order of those ninny 
young women who realize the popular conception of the 
purely innocent. She had fenced and kept her guard. Of 
this it was her angry glory to have the knowledge. But 
she had been compelled to fence. Such are men in the 
world of facts, that when a woman steps out of her domes- 
tic tangle to assert, because it is a tangle, her rights to 
partial independence, they sight her for their prey, or at 
least they complacently suppose her accessible. Wretched 
at home, a woman ought to bury herself in her wretchedness, 
else may she be assured that not the cleverest, wariest 
guard will cover her character. 

Against the husband her cause was triumphant. Against 
herself she decided not to plead it, for this reason, that the 
preceding Court, which was the public and only positive 
one, had entirely and justly exonerated her. But the 
holding of her hand by the friend half a minute too long 
for friendship, and the overfriendliness of looks, letters, 
frequency of visits, would speak within her. She had a 
darting view of her husband’s estimation of them in his 
present mood. She quenched it; they were trifles, things 
that women of the world have to combat. The revelation 
to a fair-minded young woman of the majority of men 
being naught other than men, and some of the friendliest 
of men betraying confidence under the excuse of tempta- 
tion, is one of the shocks to simplicity which leave her the 
alternative of misanthropy or philosophy. Diana had not 
the heart to hate her kind, so she resigned herself to par- 
don, and to the recognition of the state of duel between the 
sexes — active enough in her sphere of society. The circle 
hummed with it ; many lived for it. Could she pretend to 
ignore it ? Her personal experience might have instigated 
a less clear and less intrepid nature to take advantage of 
the opportunity for playing the popular innocent, who runs 
about with astonished eyes to find herself in so ‘hunting a 
world, and wins general compassion, if not shelter in un- 
suspected and unlicenced places. There is perpetually the 


THE CONFLICT OF THE NIGHT 


99 


Inducement to act the hypocrite before the hypocrite world, 
unless a woman submits to be the humbly knitting house- 
wife, unquestioningly worshipful of her lord ; for the world 
is ever gracious to an hypocrisy that pays homage to the 
mask of virtue by copying it; the world is hostile to the 
face of an innocence not conventionally simpering and 
quite surprised; the world prefers decorum to honesty. 
“Let me be myself, whatever the martyrdom! ” she cried, 
in that phase of young sensation when, to the blooming 
woman, the putting on of a mask appears to wither her 
and reduce her to the show she parades. Yet, in common 
with her sisterhood, she owned she had worn a sort of 
mask ; the world demands it of them as the price of their 
station. That she had never worn it consentingly, was the 
plea for now casting it off altogether, showing herself as 
she was, accepting martyrdom, becoming the first martyr 
of the modern woman’s cause — a grand position ! and one 
imaginable to an excited mind in the dark, which does not 
conjure a critical humour, as light does, to correct the 
feverish sublimity. She was, then, this martyr, a woman 
capable of telling the world she knew it, and of confessing 
that she had behaved in disdain of its rigider rules, accord 
ing to her own ideas of her immunities. 0 brave ! 

But was she holding the position by flight ? It involved 
the challenge of consequences, not an evasion of them. 

She moaned; her mental steam-wheel stopped ; fatigue 
brought sleep. 

She had sensationally led her rebellious wits to the 
Crossways, distilling much poison from thoughts on the 
way; and there, for the luxury of a still seeming indecision, 
she sank into oblivion. 


100 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


CHAPTER XI 

RECOUNTS THE JOURNEY IN A CHARIOT, WITH A CERTAIN 
AMOUNT OF DIALOGUE, AND A SMALL INCIDENT ON THE 
ROAD 

In the morning the fight was over. She looked at the 
signpost of The Crossways whilst dressing, and submitted 
to follow, obediently as a puppet, the road recommended 
by friends, though a voice within, that she took for the 
intimations of her reason, protested that they were wrong, 
that they were judging of her case in the general, and 
unwisely —-disastrously for her. 

The mistaking of her desires for her reason was peculiar 
to her situation. 

“ So I suppose I shall some day see The Crossways again,” 
she said, to conceive a compensation in the abandonment 
of freedom. The night’s red vision of martyrdom was 
reserved to console her secretly, among the unopened 
lockers in her treasury of thoughts. It helped to sustain 
her ; and she was too conscious of things necessary for her 
sustainment to bring it to the light of day and examine it. 
She had a pitiful bit of pleasure in the gratification she 
imparted to Danvers, by informing her that the journey 
of the day was backward to Copsley. 

“ If I may venture to say so, ma’am, I am very glad,” 
said her maid. 

“You must be prepared for the questions of lawyers, 
Danvers.” 

“Oh, ma’am ! they ’ll get nothing out of me, and their 
wigs won’t frighten me.” 

“ It is usually their baldness that is most frightening, my 
poor Danvers.” 

“ Nor their baldness, ma’am,” said the* literal maid ; “ I 
never cared for their heads, or them. I ’ve been in a Case 
before.” 

“ Indeed ! ” exclaimed her mistress ; and she had a chill. 

Danvers mentioned a notorious Case, adding, “ They got 
nothing out of me.” 


THE JOURNEY IN A CHARIOT 


101 


“ In my Case you will please to speak the truth,” said 
Diana, and beheld in the looking-glass the primming of her 
maid’s mouth. The sight shot a sting. 

“ Understand that there is to be no hesitation about telling 
the truth of what you know of me,” said Diana ; and the 
answer was, “ No, ma’am.” 

For Danvers could remark to herself that she knew little, 
and was not a person to hesitate. She was a maid of the 
world, with the quality of faithfulness, by nature, to a 
good mistress. 

Red worth’s further difficulties were confined to the hiring 
of a conveyance for the travellers, and hot-water bottles, 
together with a postillion not addicted to drunkenness. 
He procured a posting-chariot, an ancient and musty, 
of a late autumnal yellow unrefreshed by paint; the only 
bottles to be had were Dutch schiedam. His postillion, 
inspected at Storling, carried the flag of habitual inebriation 
on his nose, and he deemed it advisable to ride the mare 
in accompaniment as far as Riddlehurst, notwithstanding 
the postillion’s vows upon his honour that he was no drinker. 
The emphasis, to a gentleman acquainted with his country- 
men, was not reassuring. He had hopes of enlisting a 
trustier fellow at Riddlehurst, but he was disappointed ; 
and while debating upon what to do, for he shrank from 
leaving two women to the conduct of that inflamed trough- 
snout, Brisby, despatched to Storling by an afterthought 
of Lady Dunstane’s, rushed out of the Riddlehurst inn 
taproom, and relieved him of the charge o£ the mare. He 
was accommodated with a seat on a stool in the chariot^ 
“ My triumphal car,” said his captive. She was very 
amusing about her postillion ; Danvers had to beg pardon 
for laughing. “ You are happy,” observed her mistress. 
But Red worth laughed too, and he could not boast of any 
happiness beyond the temporary satisfaction, nor could 
she who sprang the laughter boast of that little. She 
said to herself, in the midst of the hilarity, “ Wherever 
I go now, in all weathers, I am perfectly naked ! ” And 
remembering her readings of a certain wonderful old quarto 
book in her father’s library, by an eccentric old Scottish 
nobleman, wherein the wearing of garments and sleeping 
in houses is accused as the cause of human degeneracy, she 


102 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


took a forced merry stand on her return to the primitive 
healthful state of man and woman, and affected scorn 
of our modern ways of dressing and thinking. Whence 
it came that she had some of her wildest seizures of 
iridescent humour. Danvers attributed the fun to her 
mistress’s gladness in not having pursued her bent to quit 
the country. Eedworth saw deeper, and was nevertheless 
amazed by the airy hawk-poise and pounce-down of her 
wit, as she ranged high and low, now capriciously gener- 
alizing, now dropping bolt upon things of passage — the 
postillion jogging from rum to gin, the rustics baconly 
agape, the horse-kneed ostlers. She touched them to the 
life in similes and phrases ; and next she was aloft, 
derisively philosophizing, but with a comic afflatus that 
dispersed the sharpness of her irony in mocking laughter. 
The afternoon refreshments at the inn of the county 
market-town, and the English idea of public hospitality, 
as to manner and the substance provided for wayfarers, 
was among the themes she made memorable to him. She 
spoke of everything tolerantly, just naming it in a simple 
sentence, that fell with a ring and chimed : their host’s 
ready acquiescence in receiving orders, his contemptuous 
disclaimer of stuff he did not keep, his flat indifference to 
the sheep he sheared, and the phantom half-crown flicker- 
ing in one eye of the anticipatory waiter; the pervading 
and confounding smell of stale beer over all the apartments; 
the prevalent notion of bread, butter, tea, milk, sugar, as 
matter for the exercise of a native inventive genius — these 
were reviewed in quips of metaphor. 

“Come, we can do better at an inn or two known to me,” 
said Eedworth. 

“ Surely this is the best that can be done for us, when we 
strike them with the magic wand of a postillion? ” said she. 

“It depends, as elsewhere, on the individuals enter- 
taining us.” 

“Yet you admit that your railways are rapidly ‘ polish- 
ing off’ the individual.” 

“They will spread the metropolitan idea of comfort.” 

“ I fear they will feed us on nothing but that big word. 
It booms — a curfew bell — for every poor little light that 
we would read by.” 


THE j'OdlNEY IN A CHARIOT 


103 


Seeing their beacon- noised postillion preparing to mount 
and failing in his jump, Red worth was apprehensive, and 
questioned the fellow concerning potation. 

“Lord, sir, they call me half a horse, but I can’t ’bide 
water,” was the reply, with the assurance that he had not 
'‘taken a pailful.” 

Habit enabled him to gain his seat. 

“ It seems to us unnecessary to heap on coal when the 
chimney is afire; but he may know the proper course,” 
Diana said, convulsing Danvers; and there was discernibly 
to Redworth, under the influence of her phrases, a like- 
ness of the flaming “half-horse,” with the animals all 
smoking in the frost, to a railway engine. “ Your wrinkled 
centaur,” she named the man. Of course he had to play 
second to her, and not unwillingly; but he reflected pass- 
ingly on the instinctive push of her rich and sparkling 
voluble fancy to the initiative, which women do not like 
in a woman, and men prefer to distantly admire. English 
women and men feel toward the quick-witted of their 
species as to aliens, having the demerits of aliens — wordi- 
ness, vanity, obscurity, shallowness, an empty glitter, the 
sin of posturing. A quick-witted woman exerting her wit 
is both a foreigner and potentially a criminal. She is 
incandescent to a breath of rumour. It accounted for her 
having detractors ; a heavy counterpoise to her enthusiastic 
friends. It might account for her husband’s discontent — 
the reduction of him to a state of mere masculine antago- 
nism. What is the husband of a van ward woman? He 
feels himself but a diminished man. The English husband 
of a voluble woman relapses into a dreary mute. Ah, for 
the choice of places! Redworth would have yielded her 
the loquent lead for the smallest of the privileges due to 
him who now rejected all, except the public scourging of 
her. The conviction was in his mind that the husband of 
this woman sought rather to punish than be rid of her. 
But a part of his own emotion went to form the judgement. 

Furthermore, Lady Dun stane’s allusion to her “enemies” 
made him set down her growing crop of backbiters to the 
trick she had of ridiculing things English. If the English 
do it themselves, it is in a professionally robust, a jocose, 
kindly way, always with a glance at the other things, great 


104 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


things, they excel in; and it is done to have the credit of 
doing it. They are keen to catch an inimical tone; they 
will find occasion to chastise the presumptuous individual, 
unless it be the leader of a party, therefore a power; for 
they respect a power. Red worth knew their quaintnesses; 
without overlooking them he winced at the acid of an irony 
that seemed to spring from aversion, and regretted it, for 
her sake. He had to recollect that she was in a sharp- 
strung mood, bitterly surexcited; moreover he reminded 
himself of her many and memorable phrases of enthusiasm 
for England — Shakespeareland, as she would sometimes 
perversely term it, to sink the country in the poet. English 
fortitude, English integrity, the English disposition to do 
justice to dependents, adolescent English ingenuousness, 
she was always ready to laud. Only her enthusiasm re- 
quired rousing by circumstances ; it was less at the brim 
than her satire. Hence she made enemies among a placable 
people. 

He felt that he could have helped her under happier 
conditions. The beautiful vision she had been on the 
night of the Irish Ball swept before him, and he looked at 
her, smiling. 

Why do you smile? ” she said. 

“I was thinking of Mr. Sullivan Smith.” 

“Ah! my dear compatriot ! And think, too, of Lord 
Larrian.” 

She caught her breath. Instead of recreation, the 
names brought on a fit of sadness. It deepened; she 
neither smiled rior rattled any more. She gazed across 
the hedgeways at the white meadows and bare-twigged 
copses showing their last leaves in the frost. 

“ I remember your w r ords: ‘Observation is the most 
enduring of the pleasures of life ; 7 and so I have found 
it,” she said. There was a brightness along her under- 
eyelids that caused him to look away. 

The expected catastrophe occurred on the descent of a 
cutting in the sand, where their cordial postillion at a trot 
bumped the chariot against the sturdy wheels of a waggon, 
which sent it reclining for support upon a beech-tree’s huge 
intertwisted serpent roots, amid strips of brown bracken 
and pendant weeds, while he exhibited one short stump of 


THE JOURNEY IN A CHARIOT 105 

leg, all boot, in air. No one was hurt. Diana disengaged 
herself from the shoulder of Danvers, and mildly said, — 

“That reminds me, I forgot to ask why we came in a 
chariot.” 

Redworth was excited on her behalf, but the broken 
glass had done no damage, nor had Danvers fainted. The 
remark was unintelligible to him, apart from the comfort- 
ing it had been designed to give. He jumped out, and 
held a hand for them to do the same. “ I never foresaw 
an event more positively,” said he. 

“ And it was nothing but a back view that inspired you 
all the way,” said Diana. 

A waggoner held the horses, another assisted Redworth 
to right the chariot. The postillion had hastily recovered 
possession of his official seat, that he might as soon as 
possible feel himself again where he was most intelligent, 
and was gay in stupidity, indifferent to what happened 
behind him. Diana heard him counselling the waggoner 
as to the common sense of meeting small accidents with a 
cheerful soul. 

“Lord !” he cried, “I been pitched a somerset in my 
time, and taken up for dead, and that did n't beat me! ” 

Disasters of the present kind could hardly affect such a 
veteran. But he was painfully disconcerted by Redworth’s 
determination not to entrust the ladies any farther to his 
guidance. Danvers had implored for permission to walk 
the mile to the town, and thence take a fly to Copsley. 
Her mistress rather sided with the postillion, who begged 
them to spare him the disgrace of riding in and delivering 
a box at the Red Lion. 

“ What 'll they say? And they know Arthur Dance well 
there,” he groaned. “What ! Arthur! chariotin' a box! 
And me a better man to his work now than I been for 
many a long season, fit for double the journey ! A bit of 
a shake always braces me up. I could read a newspaper 
right off, small print and all. Come along, sir, and hand 
the ladies in.” 

Danvers vowed her thanks to Mr. Redworth for refusing. 
They walked ahead; the postillion communicated his mix* 
ture of professional and human feelings to the waggoners, 
and walked his horses in the rear, meditating on the weak 


106 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


heartedness of gentryfolk, and the means for escaping 
being chaffed out of his boots at the Old Red Lion, where 
he was to eat, drink, and sleep that night. Ladies might 
be fearsome after a bit of a shake; he would not have sup- 
posed it of a gentleman. He jogged himself into an arith- 
metic of the number of nips of liquor he had taken to 
soothe him on the road, in spite of the gentleman. “For 
some of 'em are sworn enemies of poor men, as yonder 
one, ne’er a doubt.” 

Diana enjoyed her walk beneath the lingering brown-red 
of the frosty November sunset, with the scent of sand- 
earth strong in the air. 

“ I had to hire a chariot because there was no two-horse 
carriage,” said Red worth, “and I wished to reach Copsley 
as early as possible.” 

She replied, smiling, that accidents were fated. As a 
certain marriage had been! The comparison forced itself 
on her reflections. • 

“But this is quite an adventure,” said she, reanimated 
by the brisker flow of her blood. “We ought really to be 
thankful for it, in days when nothing happens.” 

Redworth accused her of getting that idea from the 
perusal of romances. 

“Yes, our lives require compression, like romances, to 
be interesting, and we object to the process,” she said. 
“ Real happiness is a state of dulness. When we taste it 
consciously it becomes mortal — a thing of the Seasons. 
But I like my walk. How long these November sunsets 
burn, and what hues they have ! There is a scientific 
reason, only don’t tell it me. Now T understand why you 
always used to choose your holidays in November.” 

She thrilled him with her friendly recollection of his 
customs. 

“As to happiness, the looking forward is happiness,” he 
remarked. 

“Oh, the looking back ! back! ” she cried. 

“Forward ! that is life.” 

“And backward, death, if you will; and still it is hap- 
piness. Death, and our postillion ! ” 

“ Ay ; I wonder why the fellow hangs to the rear, ” said 
Redworth, turning about 


BETWEEN EMMA AND DIANA 


107 


“It's his cunning 'strategy, poor creature, so that he 
may be thought to have delivered us at the head of the 
town, for us to make a purchase or two, if we go to the 
inn on foot,” said Diana. “We'll let the manoeuvre 
succeed.” 

Redworth declared that she had a head for everything, 
and she was flattered to hear him. 

So passing from the southern into the western road, they 
saw the town-lights beneath an umber sky burning out 
sombrely over the woods of Copsley, and entered the town, 
the postillion following. 


CHAPTER XII 

BETWEEN EMMA AND DIANA 

Diana was in the arms of her friend at a late hour of 
the evening, and Danvers breathed the amiable atmosphere 
of footmen once more, professing herself perished. This 
maid of the world, who could endure hardships and loss 
of society for the mistress to whom she was attached, no 
sooner saw herself surrounded by the comforts befitting 
her station, than she indulged in the luxury of a wailful 
dejectedness, the better to appreciate them. She was 
unaffectedly astonished to find her outcries against the cold 
and the journeyings to and fro interpreted as a serving- 
woman's muffled comments on her mistress's behaviour. 
Lady Dunstane's maid Bartlett, and Mrs. Bridges the 
housekeeper, and Foster the butler, contrived to let her 
know that they could speak an if they would ; and they 
expressed their pity of her to assist her to begin the speak- 
ing. She bowed in acceptance of Foster’s offer of a glass 
of wine after supper, but treated him and the other 
two immediately as though they had been interrogating 
bigwigs. 

“They wormed nothing out of me,” she said to her mis- 
tress at night, undressing her. “ But what a set they are I 
They 've got such comfortable places, they 've all their days 


108 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


and hours for talk of the doings of their superiors. They 
read the vilest of those town papers, and they put their 
two and two together of what is happening in and about. 
And not one of the footmen thinks of staying, because 
it ’s so dull; and they and the maids object — did one ever 
hear? — to the three uppers retiring, when they’ve done 
dining, to the private room to dessert.” 

“That is the custom? ” observed her mistress. 

“Foster carries the decanter, ma’am, and Mrs. Bridges 
the biscuits, and Bartlett the plate of fruit, and they 
march out in order.” 

“The man at the head of the procession, probably.” 

“ Oh, yes. And the others, though they have everything 
except the wine and dessert, don’t like it. When I was 
here last they were new, and had n’t a word against it. 
Now they say it’s invidious! Lady Dunstane will be left 
without an under-servant at Copsley soon. I was asked 
about your boxes, ma’am, and the moment I said they were 
at Dover, that instant all three peeped. They let out a 
mouse to me. They do love to talk ! ” 

Her mistress could have added, “ And you too, my good 
Danvers ! ” trustworthy though she knew the creature to 
be in the main. 

“Now go, and be sure you have bedclothes enough before 
you drop asleep,” she said; and Danvers directed her steps 
to gossip with Bartlett. 

Diana wrapped herself in a dressing-gown Lady Dunstane 
had sent her, and sat by the fire, thinking of the powder 
of tattle stored in servants’ halls to explode beneath her: 
and but for her choice of roads she might have been among 
strangers. The liking of strangers best is a curious exem- 
plification of innocence. 

“Yes, I was in a muse,” she said, raising her head to 
Emma, whom she expected and sat armed to meet, unac- 
countably iron-nerved. “I was questioning whether I 
could be quite as blameless as I fancy, if I sit and shiver 
to be in England. You will tell me 1 have taken the right 
road. I doubt it. But the road is taken,' and here I am. 
But any road that leads me to you is homeward, my darl- 
ing ! ” She tried to melt, determining to be at least open 
with her. 


BETWEEN EMMA AND DIANA 10$ 

“I have not praised you enough for coming,” said 
Emma, when they had embraced again. 

“Praise a little your ‘truest friend of women.’ Your 
letter gave the tug. I might have resisted it.” 

“He came straight from heaven! But, cruel Tony! 
where is your love?” 

“It is unequal to yours, dear, I see. I could have 
tvrestled with anything abstract and distant, from being 
certain — But here I am.” 

“ But, my own dear girl, you never could have allowed 
this infamous charge to be undefended? ” 

“I think so. I’ve an odd apathy as to my character; 
rather like death, when one dreams of flying the soul. 
What does it matter? I should have left the flies and 
wasps to worry a corpse. And then — good-bye gentility ! 
I should have worked for my bread. I had thoughts of 
America. I fancy I can write; and Americans, ane hears, 
are gentle to women.” 

“Ah, Tony! there’s the looking back. And, of all 
women, you ! ” 

“ Or else, dear — well, perhaps once on foreign soil, in a. 
different air, I might — might have looked back, and seen 
my whole self, not shattered, as I feel it now, and come 
home again compassionate to the poor persecuted animal 
to defend her. Perhaps that was what I was running 
away for. I fled on the instinct, often a good thing to 
trust.” 

“I saw you at The Crossways.” 

“ I remembered I had the dread that you would, though 
l did not imagine you would reach me so swiftly. My 
going there was an instinct, too. I suppose we are all 
instinct when we have the world at our heels. Porgive 
me if I generalize without any longer the right to be 
included in the common human sum. ‘ Pariah ’ and 
‘taboo’ are words we borrow from barbarous tribes; they 
stick to me.” 

“My Tony, you look as bright as ever, and you speak 
despairingly.” 

“ Call me enigma. I am that to myself, Emmy.” 

“ You are not quite yourself to your friend.” 

“Since the blow I have been bewildered: I see nothing 


110 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


upright. It came on me suddenly; stunned me. A bolt 
out of a clear sky, as they say. He spared me a scene. 
There had been threats, and yet the sky was clear, or 
seemed. When we have a man for arbiter, he is our 
sky.” 

Emma pressed her Tony’s unresponsive hand, feeling 
strangely that her friend ebbed from her. 

“Has he ... to mislead him?” she said, colouring at 
the breach in the question. 

“Proofs? He has the proofs he supposes.” 

“Not to justify suspicion?” 

“He broke open my desk and took my letters.” 

“Horrible! But the letters?” Emma shook with a 
nervous revulsion. 

“You might read them.” 

“ Basest of men I That is the unpardonable cowardice ! ” 
exclaimed Emma. 

“The world will read them, dear,” said Diana, and 
struck herself to ice. 

She broke from the bitter frigidity in fury. “They are 
letters — none very long — sometimes two short sentences 
— he wrote at any spare moment. On my honour, as a 
woman, I feel for him most. The letters — I would bear 
any accusation rather than that exposure. Letters of a 
man of his age to a young woman he rates too highly! 
The world reads them. Do you hear it saying it could 
have excused her for that fiddle-faddle with a younger — 
a young lover? And had I thought of a lover! ... I 
had no thought of loving or being loved. I confess I was 
flattered. To you, Emma, I will confess. . . . You see 
the public ridicule! — and half his age, he and I would 
have appeared a romantic couple! Confess, I said. Well, 
dear, the stake is lighted for a trial of its effect on me. 
It is this : he was never a dishonourable friend ; but men 
appear to be capable of friendship with women only for as 
long as we keep out of pulling distance of that line where 
friendship ceases. They may step on it; we must hold 
back a league. I have learnt it. You will judge whether 
he disrespects me. As for him, he is a man; at his worst, 
not one of the worst; at his best, better than very many. 
There, now, Emma, you have me stripped and burning; 


BETWEEN EMMA AND DIANA 


111 


there is my full confession. Except for this — yes, one 
thing further — that I do rage at the ridicule, and could 
choose, but for you, to have given the world cause to revile 
me, or think me romantic. Something or somebody to 
suffer for would really be agreeable. It is a singular fact, 
I have not known what this love is, that they talk about. 
And behold me marched into Smithfield! — society’s here- 
tic, if you please. I must own I think it hard.” 

Emma chafed her cold hand softly. 

“It is hard; I understand it,” she murmured. “And is 
your Sunday visit to us in the list of offences? ” 

“An item.” 

“You gave me a happy day.” 

“ Then it counts for me in heaven.” 

“ He set spies on you? ” 

“So we may presume.” 

Emma went through a sphere of tenuious reflections in 
a flash. 

“He will rue it. Perhaps now ... he may now be 
regretting his wretched frenzy. And Tony could pardon; 
she has the power of pardoning in her heart.” 

“ Oh ! certainly, dear. But tell me why it is you speak 
to-night rather unlike the sedate, philosophical Emma; in 
a tone — well, tolerably sentimental ? ” 

“I am unaware of it,” said Emma, who could have re- 
torted with a like reproach. “I am anxious, I will not 
say at present for your happiness, for your peace; and I 
have a hope that possibly a timely word from some friend 
— Lukin or another — might induce him to consider.” 

“To pardon me, do you mean?” cried Diana, flushing 
sternly. 

“Not pardon. Suppose a case of faults on both sides.” 

“You address a faulty person, my dear. But do you 
know that you are hinting at a reconcilement? ” 

“Might it not be?” 

“Open your eyes to what it involves. I trust I can 
pardon. Let him go his ways, do his darkest, or repent. 
But return to the roof of the 4 basest of men,’ who was 
guilty of ‘ the unpardonable cowardice ’? You expect me 
to be superhuman. When I consent to that, I shall be out 
of my woman’s skin, which he has branded. Go back to 


112 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


him ! ” She was taken with a shudder of head and limbs. 
“No; I really have the power of pardoning, and I am 
bound to; for among my debts to him, this present exemp- 
tion, that is like liberty dragging a chain, or, say, an 
escaped felon wearing his manacles, should count. I am 
sensible of my obligation. The price I pay for it is an 
immovable patch — attractive to male idiots, I have heard, 
and a mark of scorn to females. Between the two the 
remainder of my days will be lively. ‘ Out, out, damned 
spot!’ But it will not. And noton the hand — on the 
forehead! We ’ll talk of it no longer. I have sent a note, 
with an enclosure, to my lawyers. I sell The Crossways, 
if I have the married woman’s right to any scrap of prop- 
erty, for money to scatter fees.” 

“My purse, dear Tony!” exclaimed Emma. “My 
house! You will stay with me? Why do you shake your 
head? With me you are safe.” She spied at the shadows 
in her friend’s face. “Ever since your marriage, Tony, 
you have been strange in your trick of refusing to stay 
with me. And you and I made our friendship the pledge 
of a belief in eternity ! We vowed it. Come, I do talk 
sentimentally, but my heart is in it. I beg you — all the 
reasons are with me — to make my house your home. You 
will. You know I am rather lonely.” 

Diana struggled to keep her resolution from being broken 
by tenderness. And doubtless poor Sir Lukin had learnt 
his lesson; still, her defensive instincts could never quite 
slumber under his roof; not because of any further fear 
that they would have to be summoned; it was chiefly owing 
to the consequences of his treacherous foolishness. For 
this half-home with her friend thenceforward denied to 
her, she had accepted a protector, called husband- — rashly, 
past credence, in the retrospect; but it had been her pro- 
pelling motive; and the loathings roused by her marriage 
helped to sicken her at the idea of a lengthened stay where 
she had suffered the shock precipitating her to an act of 
insanity. 

“I do not forget you were an heiress, Emmy, and I will 
come to you if I need money to keep my head up. As for 
staying, two reasons are against it. If I am to fight my 
battle, I must be seen ; I must go about — wherever I am 


BETWEEN EMMA AND DIANA 


m 

r&ceived. So my field is London. That is obvious. And 
I shall rest better in a house where my story is not 
known.” 

Two or three questions ensued. Diana had to fortify 
her fictitious objection by alluding to her maid’s prattle 
of the household below; and she excused the hapless, 
overfed, idle people of those regions. 

To Emma it seemed a not unnatural sensitiveness. She 
came to a settled resolve in her thoughts, as she said, 
“They want a change. London is their element.” 

Feeling that she deceived this true heart, however lightly 
and necessarily, Diana warmed to her, forgiving her at 
last for having netted and dragged her back to front the 
enemy; an imposition of horrors, of which the scene and 
the travelling with Redworth, the talking of her case with 
her most intimate friend as well, had been a distempering 
foretaste. 

They stood up and kissed, parting for the night. 

An odd world, where for the sin we have not participated 
in we must fib and continue fibbing, she reflected. She 
did not entirely cheat her clearer mind, for she perceived 
that her step in flight had been urged both by a weak 
despondency and a blind desperation; also that the world 
of a fluid civilization is perforce artificial. But her mind 
was in the background of her fevered senses, and when 
she looked in the glass and mused on uttering the word, 
“Liar!” to the lovely image, her senses were refreshed, 
her mind somewhat relieved, the face appeared so sover 
eignly defiant of abasement. 

Thus did a nature distraught by pain obtain some shoit 
lull of repose. Thus, moreover, by closely reading her 
self, whom she scourged to excess that she might in justice 
be comforted, she gathered an increasing knowledge of our 
human constitution, and stored matter for the brain. 


« 


114 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


CHAPTER XIII 

TOUCHING THE FIRST DAYS OF HER PROBATION 

TnE result of her sleeping was, that Diana’s humour, 
locked up over-night, insisted on an excursion, as she lay 
with half-buried head and open eyelids, thinking of the 
firm of lawyers she had to see ; and to whom , and to the 
legal profession generally, she would be, under outward 
courtesies, nothing other than “the woman Warwick.” 
She pursued the woman Warwick unmercifully through a 
series of interviews with her decorous and crudely-minded 
defenders; accurately perusing them behind their senior 
staidness. Her scorching sensitiveness sharpened her 
intelligence in regard to the estimate of discarded wives 
entertained by men of business and plain men of the world, 
and she drove the woman Warwick down their ranks v 
amazed by the vision of a puppet so unlike to herself in 
reality, though identical in situation. That woman, recit- 
ing her side of the case, gained a gradual resemblance to 
Danvers; she spoke primly; perpetually the creature aired 
Ver handkerchief ; she was bent on softening those sugar- 
loaves, the hard business-men applying to her for facts. 
Facts were treated as unworthy of her; mere stuff of the 
dustheap, mutton-bones, old shoes; she swam above them 
in a cocoon of her spinning, sylphidine, unseizable; and 
between perplexing and mollifying the slaves of facts, she 
saw them at their heels, a tearful fry, abjectly imitative 
of her melodramatic performances. The spectacle was 
presented of a band of legal gentlemen vociferating mightily 
for swords and the onset, like the Austrian empress’s 
Magyars, to vindicate her just and holy cause. Our Law- 
courts failing, they threatened Parliament, and for a last 
resort, the country ! We are not going to be the woman 
Warwick without a stir, my brethren. 

Emma, an early riser that morning, for the purpose of 
a private consultation with Mr. Redworth, found her lying 
placidly wakeful, to judge by appearances. 

“You have not slept, my dear child?” 


THE FIE ST DAYS OF HER PROBATION 115 


“Perfectly,” said Diana, giving her hand and offering 
the lips. “ I ’in only having a warm morning bath in bed,” 
she added, in explanation of a chill moisture that the touch 
of her exposed skin betrayed; for whatever the fun of the 
woman Warwick, there had been sympathetic feminine 
i horrors in the frame of the sentient woman. 

Emma fancied she kissed a quiet sufferer. A few re- 
marks very soon set her wildly laughing. Both were 
laughing when Danvers entered the room, rather guilty, 
being late; and the sight of the prim-visaged maid she 
| had been driving among the lawyers kindled Diana’s comic 
j imagination to such a pitch that she ran riot in drolleries, 
carrying her friend headlong on the tide. 

“I have not laughed so much since you were married,” 
said Emma. 

“Nor I, dear; — proving that the bar to it was the 
ceremony,” said Diana. 

She promised to remain at Oopsley three days. “Then 
for the campaign in Mr. Redworth’s metropolis. I won- 
der whether I may ask him to get me lodgings : a sitting- 
room and two bedrooms. The Crossways has a board up 
! for letting. I should prefer to be my own tenant; only it 
would give me a hundred pounds more to get a substitute’s 
money. I should like to be at work writing instantly. 
Ink is my opium, and the pen my nigger, and he must dig 
up gold for me. It is written. Danvers, you can make 
ready to dress me when I ring.” 

Emma helped the beautiful woman to her dressing-gown 
and the step from her bed. She had her thoughts, and 
went down to Redworth at the breakfast-table, marvelling 
that any husband other than a madman could cast such a 
jewel away. The material loveliness eclipses intellectual 
qualities in such reflections. 

“He must be mad,” she said, compelled to disburden 
herself in a congenial atmosphere; which, however, she 
infrigidated by her overflow of exclamatory wonderment 
— a curtain that shook voluminous folds, luring Redworth 
to dreams of the treasure forfeited. He became rigidly 
practical. 

“Provision will have to be made for her. Lukin must 
see Mr. Warwick. She will do wisely to stay with friends 


116 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


in town, mix in company. Women are the best allies foi 
such cases. Who are her solicitors?” 

“They are mine: Braddock, Thorpe, and Simnel.” 

“ A good firm. She is in safe hands with them. I dare 
say they may come to an arrangement.” 

“I should wish it. She will never consent.” 

Redworth shrugged. A woman’s “ never ” fell far short 
of outstripping the sturdy pedestrian Time, to his mind. 

Diana saw him drive off to catch the coach in the valley, 
regulated to meet the train, and much though she liked 
him, she was not sorry that he had gone. She felt the 
better clad for it. She would have rejoiced to witness the 
departure on wings of all her friends, except Emma, to 
whom her coldness overnight had bound her anew warmly 
in contrition. And yet her friends were well-beloved by 
her; but her emotions were distraught. 

Emma told her that Mr. Redworth had undertaken to 
hire a suite of convenient rooms, and to these she looked 
forward, the nest among strangers, where she could begin 
to write, earning bread: an idea that, with the pride of 
independence, conjured the pleasant morning smell of a 
bakery about her. 

She passed three peaceable days at Copsley, at war only 
with the luxury of the house. On the fourth, a letter to 
Lady Dunstane from Redworth gave the address of the 
best lodgings he could find, and Diana started for London. 

She had during a couple of weeks, besides the first fresh 
exercising of her pen, as well as the severe gratification of 
economy, a savage exultation in passing through the streets 
on toot and unknown. Save for the plunges into the office 
of tier solicitors, she could seem to herself a woman who 
had never submitted to the yoke. What a pleasure it was, 
after finishing a number of pages, to start Eastward toward 
the lawyer-regions, full of imaginary cropping incidents, 
and from that churchyard Westward, against smoky sun- 
sets, or in welcome fogs, an atom of the crowd! She had 
an affection for. the crowd. They clothed her. She 
laughed at the gloomy forebodings of Danvers concerning 
the perils environing ladies in the streets after dark alone. 
The lights in the streets after dark, and the quick running 
of her blood, combined to strike sparks of fancy and in* 


THE FIRST DAYS OF HER PROBATION 117 

spirit the task of composition at night. This new, strange, 
solitary life, cut off from her adulatory society, both by 
the shock that made the abyss and by the utter foreign* 
ness, threw her in upon her natural forces, recasting her, 
and thinning away her memory of her past days, except- 
ing girlhood, into the remote. She lived with her girl- 
hood as with a simple little sister. They were two in 
one, and she corrected the dreams of the younger, protected 
and counselled her very sagely, advising her to love Truth 
and look always to Reality for her refreshment. She was 
ready to say, that no habitable spot on our planet was 
healthier and pleasanter than London. As to the perils 
haunting the head of Danvers, her experiences assured he" 
of a perfect immunity from them; and the maligned thor- 
oughfares of a great city, she was ready to affirm, con- 
trasted favourably with certain hospitable halls. 

The long-suffering Fates permitted her for a term to 
enjoy the geperous delusion. Subsequently a sweet sur- 
prise alleviated the shock she had sustained. Emma 
Dunstane’s carriage was at her door, and Emma entered 
her sitting-room, to tell her of having hired a house in the 
neighbourhood, looking on the park. She begged to have 
her for guest, sorrowfully anticipating the refusal. At 
least they were to be near one another. 

“ You really like this life in lodgings?” asked Emma, 
to whom the stiff furniture and narrow apartments were 
a dreariness, the miserably small lire of the sitting-room 
an aspect of cheerless winter. 

“I do,” said Diana; “yes,” she added with some reserve, 
and smiled at her damped enthusiasm, “ I can eat when I 
like, walk, work — and I am working! My legs and my 
pen demand it. Let me be independent! Besides, I begin 
to learn something of the bigger world outside the one I 
know, and I crush my mincing tastes. In return for that, 
I get a sense of strength I had not when I was a drawing- 
room exotic. Much is repulsive. But I am taken with a 
passion for reality.” 

They spoke of the lawyers, and the calculated period of 
the trial; of the husband too, and his inciting belief in 
the falseness of his wife. “That is his excuse,” Diana 
said, her closed mouth meditativelY dimpling the corners 


118 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


over thoughts of his grounds for fury. He had them, 
though none for the incriminating charge. The Sphinx 
mouth of the married woman at war and at bay must be 
left unriddled. She and the law differed in their inter- 
pretation of the dues of wedlock. 

But matters referring to her case were secondary with 
Diana beside the importance of her storing impressions. 
Her mind required to hunger for something, and this 
Reality which frequently she was forced to loathe, she 
forced herself proudly to accept, despite her youthfulness. 
Her philosophy swallowed it in the lump, as the great 
serpent his meal; she hoped to digest it sleeping like- 
wise. Her visits of curiosity to the Law Courts, where 
she stood spying and listening behind a veil, gave her a 
great deal of tough substance to digest. There she watched 
the process of the tortures to be applied to herself, and 
hardened her senses for the ordeal. She saw there the 
ribbed and shanked old skeleton world on which our fair 
fleshly is moulded. After all, your Fool’s Paradise is not 
a garden to grow in. Charon’s ferry-boat is not thicker 
with phantoms. They do not live in mind or soul. Chiefly 
women people it: a certain class of limp men; women for 
the most part: they are sown there. And put their garden 
under the magnifying glass of intimacy, what do we be- 
hold? A world not better than the world it curtains, only 
foolisher. 

Her conversations with Lady Dunstane brought her at 
last to the point of her damped enthusiasm. She related 
an incident or two occurring in her career of independence, 
and they discussed our state of civilization plainly and 
gravely, save for the laughing peals her phrases occasion- 
ally provoked; as when she named the intruders and dis- 
turbers of solitarily-faring ladies, “ Cupid’s footpads.” 
Her humour was created to swim on waters where a 
prescribed and cultivated prudery should pretend to be 
drowning. 

u I was getting an exalted idea of English gentlemen, 
Emmy. ‘ Rich and rare were the gems she wore.’ I was 
ready to vow that one might traverse the larger island 
similarly respected. I praised their chivalry. I thought 
it a privilege to live in such a land. I cannot describe to 


THE FIRST DAYS OF HER PROBATION 


119 


you how delightful it was to me to walk out and home 
generally protected. I might have been seriously annoyed 
but that one of the clerks — ‘articled,’ he called himself — 
of our lawyers happened to be by. He offered to guard me, 
and was amusing with his modest tiptoe air. No, I trust to 
the English common man more than ever. He is a man of 
honour. I am convinced he is matchless in any other 
country, except Ireland. The English gentleman trades on 
his reputation.” 

He was condemned by an afflicted delicacy, the sharpest 
of critical tribunals. 

Emma bade her not to be too sweeping from a bad example. 

“It is not a single one,” said Diana. “What vexes me 
and frets me is, that I must be a prisoner, or allow Danvers 
to mount guard. And I can’t see the end of it. And 
Danvers is no magician. She seems to know her country- 
men, though. She warded one of them off, by saying to me : 
‘This is the crossing, ray lady.’ He fled.” 

Lady Dunstane affixed the popular title to the latter kind 
of gentleman. She was irritated on her friend’s behalf, and 
against the worrying of her sisterhood, thinking in her 
heart, nevertheless, that the passing of a face and figure 
like Diana’s might inspire honourable emotions, pitiable for 
being hapless. 

“ If you were with me, dear, you would have none of these 
annoyances,” she said, pleading forlornly. 

Diana smiled to herself. “No ! I should relapse into 
softness. This life exactly suits my present temper. My 
landlady is respectful and attentive ; the little housemaid 
is a willing slave ; Danvers does not despise them pugna- 
ciously ; they make a home for me, and I am learning daily. 
Do you know, the less ignorant I become, the more con- 
siderate I am for the ignorance of others — I love them for 
it.” She squeezed Emma’s hand with more meaning than 
her friend apprehended. “So I win my advantage from 
the trifles I have to endure. They are really trifles, and I 
should once have thought them mountains!” 

For the moment Diana stipulated that she might not have 
to encounter friends or others at Lady Dunstane’s dinner- 
table, and the season not being favourable to those gatherings 
planned by Lady Dunstane in her project of winning sup 


120 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

porters, there was a respite, during which Sir Lukin worked 
manfully at his three Clubs to vindicate Diana’s name from 
the hummers and hawers, gaining half a dozen hot adherents, 
and a body of lukewarm, sufficiently stirred to be desirous 
to see the lady. He worked with true champion zeal, 
although an interview granted him by the husband settled 
his opiniou as to any possibility of the two ever coming to 
terms. Also it struck him that if he by misadventure had 
been a woman and the wife of such a fellow, by Jove ! . . . 
— his apostrophe to the father of the gods of pagandom 
signifying the amount of matter Warwick would have had 
reason to complain of in earnest. By ricochet his military 
mind rebounded from his knowledge of himself to an ardent 
faith in Mrs. Warwick’s innocence; for, as there was no 
resemblance between them, there must, he deduced, be a 
difference in their capacity for enduring the perpetual 
company of a prig, a stick, a petrified poser. Moreover, 
the novel act of advocacy, and the nature of the advocacy, 
had effect on him. And then he recalled the scene in the 
winter beech-woods, and Diana’s wild-deer eyes ; her perfect 
generosity to a traitor and fool. How could he have 
doubted her ? Glimpses of the corrupting cause for it 
partly penetrated his density : a conqueror of ladies, in mid 
career, doubts them all. Of course he had meant no harm, 
nothing worse than some pretty philandering with the love- 
liest woman of her time. And, by Jove ! it was worth the 
rebuff to behold the Beauty in her wrath. 

The reflections of Lothario, however much tending tardily 
to do justice to a particular lady, cannot terminate whole- 
somely. But he became a gallant partisan. His portrayal 
of Mr. Warwick to his wife and his friends was fine cari- 
cature. “ The fellow had his hand up at my first word — 
stood like a sentinel under inspection. ‘ Understand, Sir 
Lukin, that I receive you simply as an acquaintance. As 
an intermediary, permit me to state that you are taking 
superfluous trouble. The case must proceed. It is final. 
She is at liberty, in the meantime, to draw on my bankers 
for the provision she may need, at the rate of five hundred 
pounds per annum.’ He spoke of ‘ the lady now bearing my 
name.’ He was within an inch of saying ‘ dishonouring.’ I 
swear I heard the ‘ dis,’ and he caught himself up. He ‘ again 


THE FIRST DAYS OF HER PROBATION 121 


declined any attempt towards reconciliation/ It could 
* only be founded on evasion of the truth to be made patent 
on the day of trial.’ Half his talk was lawyers’ lingo. 
The fellow’s teeth looked like frost. If Lot’s wife had a 
brother, his name’s Warwick. How Diana Merion, who 
could have had the pick of the best of us, ever came to 
marry a fellow like that, passes my comprehension, queer 
creatures as women are ! He can ride ; that ’s about all he 
can do. I told him Mrs. Warwick had no thought of recon- 
ciliation. ‘Then, Sir Lukin, you will perceive that we 
have no standpoint for a discussion.’ I told him the point 
was, for a man of honour not to drag his wife before the 
public, as he had no case to stand on — less than nothing. 
You should have seen the fellow’s face. He shot a sneer 
up to his eyelids, and flung his head back. So I said, 
‘ Good day.’ He marches me to the door, ‘ with his cornpli- 
jnents to Lady Dunstane.’ I could have floored him for 
that. Bless my soul, what fellows the world is made of, 
when here ’s a man, calling himself a gentleman, who, just 
because he gets in a rage with his wife for one thing or 
another — and past all competition the handsomest woman 
of her day, and the cleverest, the nicest, the best of the 
whole boiling — has her out for a public horsewhipping, 
and sets all the idiots of the kingdom against her ! I tried 
to reason with him. He made as if he were going to sleep 
standing.” 

Sir Lukin gratified Lady Dunstane by his honest cham- 
pionship of Diana. And now, in his altered mood (the 
thrice indebted rogue was just cloudily conscious of a desire 
to propitiate his dear wife by serving her friend), he began 
a crusade against the scandal-newspapers, going with an 
Irish military comrade straight to the editorial offices, and 
leaving his card and a warning that the chastisement for 
print of the name of the lady in their columns would be 
personal and condign. Captain Carew Mahony, albeit un- 
acquainted with Mrs. Warwick, had espoused her cause. 
She w'as a woman, she was an Irishwoman, she was a beauti- 
ful woman. She had, therefore, three positive claims op 
him as a soldier and a man. Other Irish gentlemen, a r 
mated by the same swelling degrees, were awaking V one 
Intimation that they might be wanted. Some worth* were 


122 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


dropped here and there by General Lord Larrian ; he re- 
gretted his age and infirmities. A goodly regiment for a 
bodyguard might have been selected to protect her steps in 
the public streets, when it was bruited that the General had 
sent her a present of his great Newfoundland dog, Leander, 
to attend on her and impose a required respect. But as it 
chanced that her address was unknown to the volunteer 
constabulary, they had to assuage their ardour by thinking 
the dog luckier than they. 

The report of the dog was a fact. He arrived one morn- 
ing at Diana’s lodgings, with a soldier to lead him, and a 
card to introduce : the Hercules of dogs, a very ideal of the 
species, toweringly big, benevolent, reputed a rescuer of 
lives, disdainful of dog-fighting, devoted to his guardian’s 
office, with a majestic paw to give and the noblest satisfac- 
tion in receiving caresses ever expressed by mortal male 
enfolded about the head, kissed, patted, hugged, snuggled, 
informed that he was his new mistress’s one love and 
darling. 

She despatched a thrilling note of thanks to Lord Larrian, 
sure of her touch upon an Irish heart. 

The dog Leander soon responded to the attachment of a 
mistress enamoured of him. “ He is my husband,” she said 
to Emma, and started a tear in the eyes of her smiling 
friend ; “ he promises to trust me, and never to have the 
law of me, and to love my friends as his own ; so we are 
certain to agree.” In rain, snow, sunshine, through the 
parks and the streets, he was the shadow of Diana, com- 
manding, on the whole, apart from some desperate attempts 
to make him serve as introducer, a civilized behaviour in the 
legions of Cupid’s footpads. But he helped, innocently 
enough, to create an enemy. 


DIANA BEFORE THE WORLD 


123 


CHAPTER XIV 

OrVlNG GLIMPSES OF DIANA UNDER HER CLOUD BEFORE 
THE WORLD AND OF HER FURTHER APPRENTICESHIP 

As the day of her trial became more closely calculable,, 
0‘ana’s anticipated alarms receded with the deadening of 
fi A r heart to meet the shock. She fancied she had put on 
rp’oot-armour, unconscious that it was the turning of the 
inward flutterer to steel which supplied her cuirass and 
shield. The necessity to brave society, in the character of 
honest Defendant, caused but a momentary twitch of the 
nerves. Her heart beat regularly, like a serviceable clock ; 
none of her faculties abandoned her save songfulness, and 
none belied her, excepting a disposition to tartness almost 
venomous in the sarcastic shafts she let fly at friends inter- 
ceding with Mr. Warwick to spare his wife, when she had 
determined to be tried. A strange fit of childishness over- 
came her powers of thinking, and was betrayed in her 
manner of speaking, though to herself her dwindled humour 
allowed her to appear the towering Britomart. She pouted 
contemptuously on hearing that a Mr. Sullivan Smith (a 
remotely recollected figure) had besought Mr. Warwick for 
an interview, and gained it, by stratagem, “ to bring the 
man to his senses : ” but an ultra-irishman did not com- 
promise her battle-front, as the busybody supplications of a 
personal friend like Mr. Redworth did ; and that the latter, 
without consulting her, should be “ one of the plaintive crew 
whining about the heels of the Plaintiff for a mercy she dis- 
dained and rejected ” was bitter to her taste. 

“ He does not see that unless I go through the fire there 
is no justification for this wretched character of mine ! ” 
she exclaimed. Truce, treaty, withdrawal, signified pub- 
licly pardon, not exoneration by any means ; and now that 
she was in armour she had no dread of the public. So she 
said. Red worth’s being then engaged upon the canvass of 
a borough, added to the absurdity of his meddling with the 
dilemmas of a woman. “ Dear me, Emma ! think of step- 
ping aside from the parliamentary road to entreat a husband 


£24 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

to relent, and arrange the domestic alliance of a contrary 
couple ! Quixotry is agreeable reading, a silly perform- 
ance.” Lady Dunstane pleaded his friendship. She had 
to quit the field where such darts were showering. 

The first dinner-party was aristocratic, easy to encounter. 
Lord and Lady Crane, Lady Pennon, Lord and Lady 
Esquart, Lord Larrian, Mr. and Mrs. Montvert of Halford 
Manor, Lady Singleby, Sir Walter Capperston : friends, 
admirers of Diana; patrons, in the phrase of the time, of 
her father, were the guests. Lady Pennon expected to be 
amused, and was gratified, for Diana had only to open her 
mouth to set the great lady laughing. She petitioned to 
have Mrs. Warwick at her table that day week, because 
the marquis was dying to make her acquaintance, and 
begged to have all her sayings repeated to him ; vowed she 
must be salt in the desert. “ And remember, I back you 
through thick and thin,” said Lady Pennon. To which 
Diana replied: “If I am salt in the desert, you are the 
spring;” and the old lady protested she must . put that 
down for her book. The witty Mrs. Warwick, of whom 
wit was expected, had many incitements to be guilty of 
cheap wit ; and the beautiful Mrs. Warwick, being able to 
pass anything she uttered, gave good and bad alike, under 
the impulsion to give out something, that the stripped and 
shivering Mrs. Warwick might find a cover in applause. 
She discovered the social uses of cheap wit ; she laid 
ambushes for anecdotes, a telling form of it among a people 
of no conversational interlocution, especially in the circles 
depending for dialogue upon perpetual fresh supplies of 
scandal ; which have plentiful crops, yet not sufficient. 
The old dinner and supper tables at The Crossways 
furnished her with an abundant store ; and recollection 
failing, she invented. Irish anecdotes are always popular 
in England, as promoting, besides the wholesome shake of 
the sides, a kindly sense of superiority. Anecdotes also 
are portable, unlike the lightning flash, which will not go 
into the pocket; they can be carried home, they are dis- 
bursable at other tables. These were Diana’s weapons 
4he was perforce the actress of her part. In happier times, 
when light of heart and natural, her vogue had not been so 
enrapturing. Doubtless Cleopatra in her simple Egyptian 


DIANA BEFORE THE WORLD 


125 


uniform would hardly have won such plaudits as her stress 
of barbaric Oriental splendours evoked for her on the swan 
and serpent Nile-barge — not from posterity at least. It is 
a terrible decree, that all must act who would prevail ; and 
the more extended the audience, the greater need for the 
mask and buskin. 

From Lady Pennon’s table Diana passed to Lady Crane’s, 
Lady Esquart’s, Lady Singleby’s, the Duchess of Raby’s, 
warmly clad in the admiration she excited. She appeared 
at Princess Therese Paryli’s first ball of the season, and 
had her circle, not of worshippers only. She did not dance. 
The princess, a fair Austrian, benevolent to her sisterhood, 
an admirer of Diana’s contrasting complexion, would have 
had her dance once in a quadrille of her forming, but 
yielded to the mute expression of the refusal. Wherever 
Mrs. Warwick went, her arts of charming were addressed 
to the women. Men may be counted on for falling bowled 
over by a handsome face and pointed tongue ; women 
require some wooing from their ensphered and charioted 
sister, particularly if she is clouded ; and old women — 
excellent buttresses — must be suavely courted. Now, to 
woo the swimming matron and court the settled dowager, 
she had to win forgiveness for her beauty ; and this was 
done, easily done, by forbearing to angle with it in the 
press of nibblers. They ranged about her, individually 
unnoticed. Seeming unaware of its effect where it kindled, 
she smote a number of musical female chords, compassion 
among them. A general grave affability of her eyes and 
smiles was taken for quiet pleasure in the scene. Her fitful 
intentness of look when conversing with the older ladies told 
of the mind within at work upou what they said, and she 
was careful that plain dialogue should make her compre- 
hensible to them. Nature taught her these arts, through 
which her wit became extolled entirely on the strength of 
her reputation, and her beauty did her service hy never 
taking aim abroad. They are the woman’s arts of self- 
defence, as legitimately and honourably hers as the manful 
use of the fists with a coarser sex. If it had not been 
nature that taught her the practice of them in extremity, 
the sagacious dowagers would have seen brazenness rather 
than innocence — or an excusable indiscretion — in the part 


126 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


she was performing. They are not lightly duped by one 
of their sex. Few tasks are more difficult than for a young 
woman under a cloud to hoodwink old women of the world. 
They are the prey of financiers ; but Time has presented 
them a magic ancient glass to scan their sex in. 

At Princess Paryli’s Ball two young men of singular 
elegance were observed by Diana, little though she con- 
centered her attention on any figures of the groups. She 
had the woman’s faculty (transiently bestowed by perfervid 
jealousy upon men) of distinguishing minutely in the calm- 
est of indifferent glances. She could see without looking ; 
and when her eyes were wide they had not to dwell to 
be detective. It did not escape her that the Englishman 
of the two hurried for the chance of an introduction, nor 
that he suddenly, after putting a question to a man beside 
him, retired. She spoke of them to Emma as they drove 
home. “ The princess’s partner in the first quadrille . . . 
Hungarian, I suppose ? He was like a Tartar modelled by 
a Greek : supple as the Scythian’s bow, braced as the 
string ! He has the air of a born horseman, and valses per- 
fect^. I won’t say he was handsomer than a young 
Englishman there, but he had the advantage of soldierly 
training. How different is that quick springy figure from 
our young men’s lounging style! It comes of military 
exercise and discipline.” 

“That was Count Jochany, a cousin of the princess, and 
a cavalry officer,” said Emma. “ You don’t know the other ? 
1 am sure the one you mean must be Percy Dacier.” 

His retiring was explained : the Hon. Percy Dacier was 
the nephew of Lord Dannisburgh, often extolled to her as 
the promising youngster of his day, with the reserve that, 
he wasted his youth : for the young gentleman was decorous 
and studious; ambitious, according to report; a politician 
taking to politics much too seriously and exclusively to 
suit his uncle’s pattern for the early period of life. Uncle 
and nephew went their separate ways, rarely meeting, 
though their exchange eff esteem was cordial. 

Thinking over his abrupt retirement from the crowded 
semicircle, Diana felt her position pinch her, she knew not 
why. 

Lady Dunstane was as indefatigable by day as by night 


DIANA BEFORE THE WORLD 


127 


in the business of acting goddess to her beloved Tony, 
whom she assured that the service, instead of exhausting, 
gave her such healthfulness as she had imagined herself 
to have lost for ever. The word was passed, and invita- 
tions poured in to choice conversational breakfasts, private 
afternoon concerts, all the humming season’s assemblies. 
Mr. Warwick’s treatment of his wife was taken by implica- 
tion for lunatic ; wherever she was heard or seen, he had 
no case ; a jury of some hundreds of both sexes, ready to 
be sworn, pronounced against him. Only the personal 
enemies of the lord in the suit presumed to doubt, and they 
exercised the discretion of a minority. 

But there is an upper middle class below the aristocratic, 
boasting an aristocracy of morals, and eminently persuasive 
of public opinion, if not commanding it. Previous to the 
relaxation, by amendment, of a certain legal process, this 
class was held to represent the austerity of the country. 
At present a relaxed austerity is represented ; and still the 
bulk of the members are of fair repute, though not quite 
on the level of their pretensions. They were then, while 
more sharply divided from the titular superiors they are 
socially absorbing, very powerful to brand a woman’s char- 
acter, whatever her rank might be ; having innumerable 
agencies and avenues for that high purpose, to say nothing 
of the printing-press. Lady Dunstane’s anxiety to draw 
them over to the cause of her friend set her thinking of the 
; influential Mrs. Cramborne Wathin, with whom she was 
distantly connected ; the wife of a potent serjeant-at-law 
fast mounting to the Bench and knighthood ; the centre of 
i a circle, and not strangely that, despite her deficiency in 
the arts and graces, for she had wealth and a cook, a hus- 
i band proud of his wine-cellar, and the ambition to rule ; all 
the rewards, together with the expectations, of the vir- 
tuous. She was a lady of incisive features bound in stale 
parchment. Complexion she had none, but she had spot- 
lessness of skin, and sons and daughters just resembling 
her, like cheaper editions of a precious quarto of a per- 
I ished type. You discerned the imitation of the type, you 
acknowledged the inferior compositor. Mr. Cramborne 
Wathin was by birth of a grade beneath his wife.,; ha 
sprang (behind a curtain of horror) from tradesmen, 


123 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Bench was in designation for him to wash ont the stain, 
but his children suffered in large hands and feet, short legs, 
excess of bone, prominences misplaced. Their mother 
inspired them carefully with the religion she opposed to 
the pretensions of a nobler blood, while instilling into them 
that the blood they drew from her was territorial, far above 
the vulgar. Her appearance and her principles fitted her 
to stand for the Puritan rich of the period, emerging by 
the aid of an extending wealth into luxurious worldliness, 
and retaining the maxims of their forefathers for the dis* 
cipline of the poor and erring. 

Lady Dunstane called on her, ostensibly to let her know 
she had taken a house in town for the season, and in the 
course of the chat Mrs. Cramborne Wathin was invited to 
dinner. “ You will meet my dear friend, Mrs. Warwick,” 
she said, and the reply was : “ Oh, I have heard of her.” 

The formal consultation with Mr. Cramborne Wathin 
ended in an agreement to accept Lady Dunstane’s kind 
invitation. 

Considering her husband’s plenitude of old legal anec- 
dotes, and her own diligent perusal of the funny publica- 
tions of the day, that she might be on the level of the wits 
and celebrities she entertained, Mrs. Cramborne Wathin 
had a right to expect the leading share in the conversation 
to which she was accustomed. Every honour was paid to 
th«m ; they met aristocracy in the persons of Lord Larrian, 
of Lady Rockden, Colonel Purlby, the Pettigrews, but 
neither of them held the table for a moment ; the topics 
flew, and were no sooner up than down ; they were unable 
to get a shot. They had to eat in silence, occasionally 
grinning, because a woman labouring under a stigma would 
rattle-rattle, as if the laughter of the company were her 
due, and decency beneath her notice. Some one alluded to 
a dog of Mrs. Warwick’s, whereupon she trips out a story 
of her dog’s amazing intelligence. 

“ And pray,” said Mrs. Cramborne Wathin across the 
table, merely to slip in a word, “ what is the name of this 
wonderful dog ? ” 

“ His name is Leander,” said Diana. 

“ Oh, Leander. I don’t think I hear myself calling to a 
dog in a name of three syllables. Two at the most.” 


DIANA BEFORE THE WORLD 


129 


“ No, so I call Hero ! if I want him to come. immediately,” 
said Diana, and the gentlemen, to Mrs. Cramborne Wathin’s 
astonishment, acclaimed it. Mr. Kedworth, at her elbow, 
explained the point, to her disgust. 

That was Diana’s offence. 

If it should seem a small one, let it be remembered that 
a snub was intended, and was foiled ; and foiled with an 
apparent simplicity, enough to exasperate, had there been 
no laughter of men to back the countering stroke. A 
woman under a cloud, she talked, pushed to shine ; she 
would be heard, would be applauded. Her chronicler must 
likewise admit the error of her giving way to a petty senti- 
ment of antagonism on first beholding Mrs. Cramborne 
Wathin, before whom she at once resolved to be herself, 
for a .holiday, instead of acting demurely to conciliate. 
Probably it was an antagonism of race, the shrinking of 
the skin from the burr. But when Tremendous Powers are 
invoked, we should treat any simple revulsion of our blood 
as a vice. The Gods of this world’s contests demand it of 
us, in relation to them, that the mind, and not the instincts, 
shall be at work. Otherwise the course of a prudent policy 
is never to invoke them, but avoid. 

The upper class was gained by her intrepidity, her charm, 
and her elsewhere offending wit, however the case might 
go. It is chivalrous, but not, alas, inflammable in support 
of innocence. The class below it is governed in estimates 
of character by accepted patterns of conduct ; yet where 
innocence under persecution is believed to exist, the mem- 
bers animated by that belief can be enthusiastic. Enthu- 
siasm is a heaven-sent steeplechaser, and takes a flying 
leap of the ordinary barriers ; it is more intrusive than 
chivalry, and has a passion to communicate its ardour. 
Two letters from stranger ladies reached Diana, through 
her lawyers and Lady Dunstane. Anonymous letters, not 
so welcome, being male effusions, arrived at her lodgings, 
one of them comical almost over the verge to pathos in its 
termination : “ To me you will ever be the Goddess Diana 
— my faith in woman ! ” 

He was unacquainted with her ! 

She had not the heart to think the writers donkeys. 
How they obtained her address was a puzzle; they stole 

V 


130 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


in to comfort her slightly. They attached her to her 
position of Defendant by the thought of what would have 
been the idea of her character if she had flown — a re- 
flection emanating from inexperience of the resources of 
sentimentalists. 

If she had flown ! She was borne along by the tide like 
a butterfly that a fish may gobble unless a friendly hand 
shall intervene. And could it in nature ? She was past 
expectation of release. The attempt to imagine living with 
any warmth of blood in her vindicated character, for the 
sake of zealous friends, consigned her to a cold and empty 
house upon a foreign earth. She had to set her mind upon 
the mysterious enshrouded Twelve, with whom the verdict 
would soon be hanging, that she might prompt her human 
combativeness to desire the vindication at such a price as 
she would have to pay for it. When Emma Dunstane spoke 
to her of the certainty of triumphing, she suggested a 
possible dissentient among the fateful Twelve, merely to 
escape the drumming sound of that hollow big word. The 
irreverent imp of her humour came to her relief by calling 
forth the Twelve, in the tone of the clerk of the Court, 
and they answered to their names of trades and crafts after 
the manner of Titania’s elves, and were questioned as to 
their fitness, by education, habits, enlightenment, to pro- 
nounce decisively upon the case in dispute, the case being 
plainly stated. They replied, that the long habit of deal- 
ing with scales enabled them to weigh the value of evidence 
the most delicate. Moreover, they were Englishmen, and 
anything short of downright bullet facts went to favour 
the woman. For thus we right the balance of legal in- 
justice toward the sex : we conveniently wink, ma’am. A 
rough, old-fashioned way for us! Is it a Breach of Prom- 
ise ? — She may reckon on her damages : we have daughters 
of our own. Is it a suit for Divorce? — Well, we have 
wives of our own, and we can lash, or we can spare ; that’s 
as it may be ; but we ’ll keep the couple tied, let ’em hate 
as they like, if they can’t furnish porkbutchers’ reasons for 
sundering; because the man makes the money in this 
country. — My goodness ! what a funny people, sir ! — It ’s 
our way of holding the balance, ma’am. — But would it no* 
be better to rectify the law and the social system, dear sir ? 


DIANA BEFORE THE WORLD 131 

—■Why, ma’am, we find it comfortabler to take cases as 
they come, in the style of our fathers. — But don’t you see, 
my good man, that you are offering scapegoats for the comfort 
of the majority ? — Well, ma’am, there always were scape* 
goats, and always will be ; we find it comes round pretty 
square in the end. 

“ And I may be the scapegoat, Emmy ! It is perfectly 
possible. The grocer, the porkbutcher, drysalter, stationer, 
tea-merchant, et caetera — they sit on me. I have studied 
the faces of the juries, and Mr. Braddock tells me of their 
composition. And he admits that they do justice roughly 
— a rough and tumble country ! to quote him — though he 
says they are honest in intention.” 

“ More shame to the man who drags you before them — 
if he persists ! ” Emma rejoined. 

“He will. I know him. I would not have him draw 
back now,” said Diana, catching her breath. “And, dear- 
est, do not abuse him ; for if you do, you set me imagining 
guiltiness. Oh, heaven ! — suppose me publicly pardoned ! 
No, I have kinder feelings when we stand opposed. It is 
odd, and rather frets my conscience, to think of the little 
resentment I feel. Hardly any ! He has not cause to like 
his wife. I can own it, and I am sorry for him, heartily. 
No two have ever come together so naturally antagonistic 
as we two. We walked a dozen steps in stupefied union, 
and hit upon crossways. Erom that moment it was tug and 
tug; he me, I him. By resisting, I made him a tyrant; 
and he, by insisting, made me a rebel. And he was the 
maddest of tyrants — a weak one. My dear, he was also 
a double-dealer. Or, no, perhaps not in design. He was 
moved at one time by his interests ; at another by his idea 
of his honour. He took what I could get for him, and 
then turned and drubbed me for getting it.” 

“This is the creature you try to excuse!” exclaimed 
indignant Emma. 

“Yes, because — but fancy all the smart things I said 
being called my ‘ sallies ! ’ — can a woman live with it? — 
because I behaved ... I despised him too much, and I 
showed it. He is not a contemptible man before the world ; 
he is merely a very narrow one under close inspection. I 
could not — or did not — conceal my feeling. I showed it 


132 


.DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


not only to him, to my friend. Husband grew to mean to 
me stifler, lung-contractor, iron mask, inquisitor, everything 
anti-natural. He suffered under my ‘sallies’: and it was 
the worse for him w T hen he did not perceive their drift. He 
is an upright man ; I have not seen marked meanness. One 
might build up a respectable figure in negatives. I could 
add a row of noughts to the single number he cherishes, 
enough to make a mill ion nai re of him ; but strike away the 
first, the rest are wind. Which signifies, that if you do not 
take his estimate of himself, you will think little of his 
negative virtues. He is not eminently, that is to say, not 
saliently, selfish ; not rancorous, not obtrusive — ta-ta-ta-ta. 
But dull ! — dull as a woollen nightcap over eyes and ears 
and mouth. Oh ! an executioner’s black cap to me. Dull, 
and suddenly staring awake to the idea of his honour. I 
‘ rendered’ him ridiculous — I had caught a trick of ‘using 
men’s phrases.’ Dearest, now that the day of trial draws 
nigh — you have never questioned me, and it was like you 
to spare me pain — but now I can speak of him and myself.” 
Diana dropped her voice. Here was another confession. 
The proximity of the trial acted like fire on her faded recol- 
lection of incidents. It may be that partly the shame of 
alluding to them had blocked her woman’s memory. For 
one curious operation of the charge of guiltiness upon the 
nearly guiltless is to make them paint themselves pure 
white, to the obliteration of minor spots, until the whiteness 
being acknowledged, or the ordeal imminent, the spots recur 
and press upon their consciences. She resumed, in a rapid 
undertone: “You know that a certain degree of independ- 
ence had been, if not granted by him, conquered by me. I 
had the habit of it. Obedience with him is imprisonment — 
he is a blind wall. He received a commission, greatly to 
his advantage, and was absent. He seems to have received 
information of some sort. He returned unexpectedly, at a 
late hour, and attacked me at once, middling violent. My 
friend — and that he is ! — was coming from the House for 
a ten minutes’ talk, as usual, on his way home, to refresh 
him after the long sitting and bear-baiting he had nightly 
to endure. Now let me confess : I grew frightened ; Mr. 
Warwick was ‘off his head,’ as they say — crazy, and I 
could not bear the thought of those two meeting. While he 


DIANA BEFORE THE WORLD 


133 


raged I threw open the window and put the lamp near it, to 
expose the whole interior — cunning as a veteran intriguer : 
horrible, but it had to be done to keep them apart. He 
asked me what madness possessed me, to sit by an open 
window at midnight, in view of the public, with a damp 
wind blowing. I complained of want of air and fanned my 
forehead. I heard the steps on the pavement ; I stung him 
to retort loudly, and I was relieved ; the steps passed on 
So the trick succeeded — the trick ! It was the worst I was 
guilty of, but it was a trick, and it branded me trickster. 
It teaches me to see myself with an abyss in my nature full 
of infernal possibilities. I think I am hewn in black rock. 
A woman who can do as I did by instinct, needs to have an 
angel always near her, if she has not a husband she 
reveres.” 

“We are none of us better than you, dear Tony; only 
some are more fortunate, and many are cowards,” Emma 
said. “ You acted prudently in a wretched situation, partly 
of your own making, partly of the circumstances. But a 
nature like yours could not sit still and moan. That 
marriage was to blame ! The English notion of women 
seems to be that we are born white sheep or black : circum- 
stances have nothing to do with our colour. They dread to 
grant distinctions, and to judge of us discerningly is beyond 
them. Whether the fiction, that their homes are purer 
than elsewhere, helps to establish the fact, I do not know : 
there is a class that does live honestly; and at any rate it 
springs from a liking for purity ; but I am sure that their 
method of impressing it on women has the dangers of things 
artificial. They narrow their understanding of human 
nature, and that is not the way to improve the breed.” 

“ I suppose we women are taken to be the second thoughts 
of the Creator; human nature’s fringes, mere finishing 
touches, not a part of the texture,” said Diana; “the 
pretty ornamentation. However, I fancy I perceive some 
tolerance growing in the minds of the dominant sex. Our 
old lawyer, Mr. Braddock, who appears to* have no distaste 
for conversations with me, assures me he expects the day to 
come when women will be encouraged to work at crafts and 
professions for their independence. That is the secret of 
the opinion of us at present — our dependency. Give us the 


134 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


means of independence, and we will gain it, and have a turn 
at judging you, my lords ! You shall behold a world 
reversed. Whenever I am distracted by existing circum- 
stances, I lay my finger on the material conditions, and I 
touch the secret. Individually, it may be moral with us ; 
collectively, it is material — gross wrongs, gross hungers. 

I am a married rebel, and thereof comes the social rebel. I 
was once a dancing and singing girl. You remember the 
night of the Dublin Ball. A Channel sea in uproar, stirred 
by witches, flows between.” 

“You are as lovely as you were then — I could say, 
lovelier,” said Emma. 

“I have unconquerable health, and I wish I could give 
you the half of it, dear. I work late into the night, and I 
wake early and fresh in the morning. I do not sing, that 
is all. A few days more, and my character will be up 
before the Bull’s Head to face him in the arena. The 
worst of a position like mine is, that it causes me inces- 
santly to think and talk of myself. I believe I think less 
than I talk, but the subject is growing stale ; as those who 
are long dying feel, I dare say — if they do not take it as 
the compensation for their departure.” 

The Bull’s Head, or British Jury of Twelve, with the 
wig on it, was faced during the latter half of a week of 
good news. First, Mr. Thomas Bed worth was returned to 
Parliament by a stout majority for the Borough of Orry- 
bridge : the Hon. Percy Dacier delivered a brilliant speech 
in the House of Commons, necessarily pleasing to his uncle • 
Lord Larrian obtained the command of the Bock : the house 
of The Crossways was let to a tenant approved by Mr. 
Braddock: Diana received the opening proof-sheets of her 
little volume, and an instalment of the modest honorarium : 
and finally, the Plaintiff in the suit involving her name was 
adjudged to have not proved his charge. 

She heard of it without a change of countenance. 

She could not have wished it the reverse; she was 
exonerated. But she was not free ; far from that ; and 
she revenged herself on the friends who made much of her 
triumph and overlooked her plight, by showing no sign of 
satisfaction. There was in her bosom a revolt at the legal 
consequences of the verdict — or blunt acquiescence of the 


DIANA BEFORE THE WORLD 


135 


Law in the conditions possibly to be imposed on her unless 
she went straight to the relieving phial ; and the burden of 
keeping it under, set her wildest humour alight, somewhat 
as Eedworth remembered of her on the journey from The 
Crossways to Copsley. This ironic fury, coming of the 
contrast of the outer and the inner, would have been in* 
dulged to the extent of permanent injury to her disposition 
had not her beloved Emma, immediately after the tension 
of the ' struggle ceased, required her tenderest aid. Lady 
Dunstane chanted victory, and at night collapsed. By the 
advice of her physician she was removed to Copsley, where 
Diana’s labour of anxious nursing restored her through love 
to a saner spirit. The hopefulness of life must bloom again 
in the heart whose prayers are offered for a life dearer than 
its own to be preserved. A little return of confidence in 
Sir Lukin also refreshed her when she saw that the poor 
creature did honestly, in his shaggy rough male fashion, 
reverence and cling to the flower of souls he named as his 
wife. His piteous groans of self-accusation during the 
crisis haunted her, and made the conduct and nature of 
men a bewilderment to her still young understanding. Save 
for the knot of her sensations (hardly a mental memory, but 
a sullen knot) which she did not disentangle to charge him 
with his complicity in the blind rashness of her marriage, 
she might have felt sisterly, as warmly as she compas- 
sionated him. 

It was midwinter when Dame Gossip, who keeps the 
exotic world alive with her fanning whispers, related that 
the lovely Mrs. Warwick had left England on board the 
schooner-yacht Clarissa , with Lord and Lady Esquart, for 
a voyage in the Mediterranean : and (behind her hand) that 
the reason was urgent, inasmuch as she fled to escape the 
meshes of the terrific net of the marital law brutally 
whirled to capture her by the man her hr.sband. 


136 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


CHAPTER XV 

INTRODUCES THE HON. PERCY DACIER 

The Gods of this world’s contests, against whom out 
poor stripped individual is commonly in revolt, are, as we 
know, not miners, they are reapers ; and if we appear no 
longer on the surface, they cease to bruise us : they will 
allow an arena character to be cleansed and made present- 
able while enthusiastic friends preserve discretion. It is 
of course less than magnanimity ; they are not proposed to 
you for your worship ; they are little Gods, temporary as 
that great wave, their parent human mass of the hour. 
But they have one worshipful element in them, which is, 
the divine insistancy upon there being two sides to a case — 
to every case. And the People so far directed by them may 
boast of healthfulness. Let the individual shriek, the 
innocent, triumphant, have in honesty to admit the fact. 
One side is vanquished according to decree of Law, but the 
superior Council does not allow it to be extinguished. 

Diana’s battle was fought shadowily behind her for the 
space of a week or so, with some advocates on behalf of the 
beaten man ; then it became a recollection of a beautiful 
woman, possibly erring, misvalued by a husband, who was 
neither a man of the world nor a gracious yokefellow, nor 
anything to match her. She, however, once out of the 
public flames, had to recall her scorchings to be gentle with 
herself. Under a defeat, she would have been angrily self- 
vindicated. The victory of the ashen laurels drove her 
mind inward to gird at the hateful yoke, in compassion for 
its pair of victims. Quite earnestly by such means, yet 
always bearing a comical eye on her subterfuges, she 
escaped the extremes of personal blame. Those advocates 
of her opponent in and out of court compelled her honest 
heart to search within and own to faults. But were they 
not natural faults? It was her marriage ; it was marriage 
in the abstract : her own mistake and the world’s clumsy 
machinery of civilization: these were the capital offenders' 
not the wife who would laugh ringingly, and would have 


INTRODUCES THE HON. PERCY DACIER 137 

friends of the other sex, and shot her epigrams at the 
helpless despot, and was at times — yes, vixenish ; a nature 
driven to it, but that was the word. She was too generous 
to recount her charges against the vanquished. If his 
wretched jealousy had ruined her, the secret high tribunal 
within her bosom, which judged her guiltless for putting 
the sword between their marriage tie when they stood as 
one, because a quarrelling couple could not in honour play 
the embracing, pronounced him just pardonable. She 
distinguished that he could only suppose, manlikely, one 
bad cause for the division. 

To this extent she used her unerring brains, more openly 
than on her night of debate at The Crossways. The next 
moment she was off in vapour, meditating grandly on her 
independence of her sex and the passions. Love ! she did 
not know it; she was not acquainted with either the crim- 
inal or the domestic God, and persuaded herself that she 
never could be. She was a Diana of coldness, preferring 
friendship ; she could be the friend of men. There was 
another who could be the friend of women. Her heart 
leapt to Red worth. Conjuring up his clear trusty face, at 
their grasp of hands when parting, she thought of her vis- 
ions of her future about the period of the Dublin Ball, and 
acknowledged, despite the erratic step to wedlock, a gain in 
having met and proved so true a friend. His face, figure, 
character, lightest look, lightest word, all were loyal signs 
of a man of honour, cold as she ; he was the man to whom 
she could have opened her heart for inspection. Rejoicing 
in her independence of an emotional sex, the impulsive 
woman burned with a regret that at their parting she had 
not broken down conventional barriers and given her cheek 
to his lips in the anti-insular fashion with a brotherly 
friend. And why not when both were cold ? Spirit to 
spirit, she did, delightfully refreshed by her capacity to do 
so without a throb. He had held her hand and looked into 
her eyes half a minute, like a dear comrade ; as little arous 
mg her instincts of defensiveness as the clearing heavens ; 
and sisterly love for it was his due, a sister’s kiss. He 
needed a sister, and should have one in her. Emma’s rec- 
ollected talk of “ Tom Redworth ” painted him from head 
to foot, brought the living man over the waters to the deck 


138 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


of the yacht. A stout champion in the person of Tom 
Redworth was left on British laud; but for some reason 
past analysis, intermixed, that is, among a swarm of sensa- 
tions, Diana named her champion to herself with the formal 
prefix : perhaps because she knew a man’s Christian name 
to be dangerous handling. They differed besides frequently 
in opinion, when the habit of thinking of him as Mr. Red- 
worth would be best. Women are bound to such small 
observances, and especially the beautiful of the sisterhood, 
whom the world soon warns that they carry explosives and 
must particularly guard against the ignition of petty sparks. 
She was less indiscreet in her thoughts than in her acts, as 
is the way with the reflective daughter of impulse; though 
she had fine mental distinctions : what she could offer to do 
“ spirit to spirit,” for instance, held nothing to her mind of 
the intimacy of calling the gentleman plain Tom in mere 
contemplation of him. Her friend and champion was a 
volunteer, far from a mercenary, and he deserved the re- 
ward, if she could bestow it unalarmed. They were to meet 
in Egypt. Meanwhile England loomed the home of hostile 
forces ready to shock, had she been a visible planet, and 
ready to secrete a virus of her past history, had she been 
making new. 

She was happily away, borne by a whiter than swan’s 
wing on the sapphire Mediterranean. Her letters to Emma 
were peeps of splendour for the invalid : her way of life on 
board the yacht, and sketches of her host and hostess as 
lovers in wedlock on the other side of our perilous forties ; 
sketches of the bays, the towns, the people — priests, dames, 
cavaliers, urchins, infants, shifting groups of supple south- 
erners — flashed across the page like a web of silk, and 
were dashed off, redolent of herself, as lightly as the silvery 
spray of the blue waves she furrowed ; telling, without al- 
lusions to the land behind her, that she had dipped in the 
wells of blissful’ oblivion. Emma Dunstane, as is usual 
with those who receive exhilarating correspondence from 
makers of books, condemned the authoress in comparison, 
and now first saw that she had the gift of writing. Only 
one cry : “ Italy, Eden of exiles ! ” betrayed the seeming of 
a moan. She wrote of her poet and others immediately. 
Thither had they fled, with adieu to England . 


INTRODUCES THE HON. PERCY DACIER 139 


How many have waved the adieu! And it is England 
nourishing, England protecting them, England clothing 
them, in the honours they wear. Only the posturing lower 
natures, on the level of their buskins, can pluck out the 
pocket-knife of sentimental spite to cut themselves loose 
from her at heart in earnest. The higher, bleed as they 
may, too pressingly feel their debt. Diana had the Celtic 
vivid sense of country. In England she was Irish, by 
hereditary, and by wilful opposition. Abroad, gazing along 
the waters, observing, comparing, reflecting, above all, read- 
ing of the struggles at home, the things done and attempted, 
her soul of generosity made her, though not less Irish, a 
daughter of Britain. It is at a distance that striving coun- 
tries should be seen if we would have them in the pure 
idea; and this young woman of fervid mind, a reader of 
public speeches and speculator on the tides of politics 
(desirous, further, to feel herself rather more in the pure 
idea), began to yearn for England long before her term 
of holiday exile had ended. She had been flattered by 
her friend, her “ wedded martyr at the stake,” as she 
named him, to believe that she could exercise a judgement 
in politics — could think, even speak acutely, on public 
affairs. The reports of speeches delivered by the men she 
knew or knew of, set her thrilling; and she fancied the 
sensibility to be as independent of her sympathy with the 
orators as her political notions were sovereignly above a sex 
devoted to trifles, and the feelings of a woman who had 
gone through fire. She fancied it confidently, notwithstand- 
ing a peculiar intuition that the plunge into the nobler 
business of the world would be a haven of safety for a wo- 
man with blood and imagination, when writing to Emma: 
“ Mr. Kedworth’s great success in Parliament is good in 
itself, whatever his views of present questions ; and I do 
not heed them when I look to what may be done by a man 
of such power in striking at unjust laws, which keep the 
really numerically better-half of the population in a state of 
slavery. If he had been a lawyer ! It must be a lawyer’s 
initiative — a lawyer’s Bill. Mr. Percy Dacier also spoke 
well, as might have been expected, and his uncle’s compli- 
ment to him was merited. Should you meet him sound him 
He has read for the Bar, and is younger than Mr. Be^ 


140 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


worth. The very young men and tho old are our hope. 
The middle-aged are hard and fast for existing facts. We 
pick our leaders on the slopes, the incline and decline of 
the mountain — not on the upper table-land midway, where 
all appears to men so solid, so tolerably smooth, save for 
a few excrescences, roughnesses, gradually to be levelled at 
their leisure; which induces one to protest that the middle- 
age of men is their time of delusion. It is no paradox. 
They may be publicly useful in a small way, I do not deny 
it at all. They must be near the gates of life — the open- 
ing or the closing — for their minds to be accessible to the 
urgency of the greater questions. Otherwise the world pre- 
sents itself to them under too settled an aspect — unless, of 
course, Yesuvian Revolution shakes the land. And that 
touches only their nerves. I dream of some old Judge ! 
There is one — if having caught we could keep him. But I 
dread so tricksy a pilot. You have guessed him — the 
ancient Puck ! We have laughed all day over the paper 
telling us of his worrying the Lords. Lady Esquart con- 
gratulates her husband in being out of it. Puck Men ride 
and bewigged might perhaps — except that at the critical 
moment he would be sure to plead allegiance to Oberon. 
However, the work will be performed by some one : I am 
prophetic : — when maidens are grandmothers ! — when your 
Tony is wearing a perpetual laugh in the unhusbanded 
regions where there is no institution of the wedding-tie.” 

For the reason that she was not to participate in the re- 
sult of the old Judge’s or young hero’s happy championship 
of the cause of her sex, she conceived her separateness high 
aloof, and actually supposed she was a contemplative, sim- 
ply speculative political spirit, impersonal albeit a woman. 
This, as Emma, smiling at the lines, had not to learn, was 
always her secret pride of fancy — the belief in her pos- 
session of a disengaged intellect. 

The strange illusion, so clearly exposed to her corre- 
spondent, was maintained through a series of letters very 
slightly descriptive, dated from the Pirseus, the Bosphorus, 
the coasts of the Crimea, all more or less relating to the 
latest news of the journals received on board the yacht, and 
of English visitors fresh from the country she now seemed 
fond of calling “ home.” Politics, and gentle allusions to 


INTRODUCES THE HON. PERCY DACIER 141 


the curious exhibition of “love in marriage” shown by her 
amiable host and hostess : — “these dear Esquarts, who are 
never tired of one another, but courtly courting, tempting 
'me to think it possible that a fortunate selection and a 
mutual deference may subscribe to human happiness : ” — 
filled the paragraphs. Reviews of her first literary venture 
were mentioned once : “ I was well advised by Mr. Red- 
worth in putting Antonia for authoress. She is a buff 
jerkin to the stripes, and I suspect that the signature of 
d. a. m., written in full, would have cawed woefully to hear 
that her style is affected, her characters nullities, her clever- 
ness forced, &c., &c. As it is I have much the same con- 
tempt for poor Antonia’s performance. Cease penning, 
little fool ! She writes, ‘ with some comprehension of the 
passion of love.’ I know her to be a stranger to the earliest 
cry. So you see, dear, that utter ignorance is the mother 
of the Art. Dialogues 1 occasionally pointed.’ She has a 
sister who may do better. — But why was I not appren- 
ticed to a serviceable profession or a trade ? I perceive 
now that a hanger-on of the market had no right to expect 
a happier fate than mine has been.” 

-On the Nile, in the winter of the year, Diana met the 
Hon. Percy Dacier. He was introduced to her at Cairo by 
Redworth. The two gentlemen had struck up a House of 
Commons acquaintanceship, and finding themselves bound 
for the same destination, had grown friendly. Red worth’s 
arrival had been pleasantly expected. She remarked on 
Dacier’s presence to Emma, without sketch or note of him 
as other than much esteemed by Lord and Lady Esquart. 
These, with Diana, Redworth, Dacier, the German Eastern 
traveller Schweizerbarth, and the French Consul and Egyp- 
tologist Duriette, composed a voyaging party up the river, 
of which expedition Redworth was Lady Dunstane’s chief 
writer of the records. His novel perceptiveness and shrewd- 
ness of touch made them amusing ; and his tenderness to the 
Beauty’s coquetry between the two foreign rivals, moved a 
deeper feeling. The German had a guitar, the Frenchman 
a voice ; Diana joined them in harmony. They complained 
apart severally of the accompaniment and the singer. Our 
English criticized them apart ; and that is at any rate to 
occupy a post, though it contributes nothing to entertain- 


142 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


ment. At home the Esquarts had sung duets; Diana had 
assisted Redworth’s manly chest-notes at the piano. Each 
of them declined to be vocal. Diana sang alone for the 
credit of the country, Italian and French songs, Irish also. 
She was in her mood of Planxty Kelly and Garryowen all 
the way. “ Madame est Irlandaise ? ” Redworth heard the 
Frenchman say, and he owned to what was implied in the 
answering tone of the question. “ We should be dull dogs 
without the Irish leaven ! ” So Tony in exile still managed 
to do something for her darling Erin. The solitary woman 
on her heights at Copsley raised an exclamation of, u Oh ! 
that those two had been or could be united ! ” She was 
conscious of a mystic symbolism in the prayer. 

She was not apprehensive of any ominous intervention of 
another. Writing from Venice, Diana mentioned Mr. 
Percy Dacier as being engaged to an heiress ; “ A Miss 
Asper, niece of a mighty shipowner, Mr. Quintin Manx, 
Lady Es quart tells me : money fabulous, and necessary to 
a younger son devoured with ambition. The elder brother, 
Lord Creedmore, is a common Nimrod, always absent in 
Hungary, Russia, America, hunting somewhere. Mr. Dacier 
will be in the Cabinet with the next Ministry.” No more 
of him. A new work by Antonia was progressing. 

The Summer in South Tyrol passed like a royal proces- 
sion before young eyes for Diana, and at the close of it, 
descending the Stelvio, idling through the Valtelline, Coino 
Lake was reached, Diana full of her work, living the double 
life of the author. At Bellagio one afternoon Mr. Percy 
Dacier appeared. She remembered subsequently a disap- 
pointment she felt in not beholding Mr. Redworth either 
with him or displacing him. If engaged to a lady, he was 
not an ardent suitor ; nor was he a pointedly compliment- 
ary acquaintance. His enthusiasm was reserved for Italian 
scenery. She had already formed a sort of estimate of his 
character, as an indifferent observer may do, and any 
woman previous to the inflaming of her imagination, if 
that is in store for her ; and she now fell to work resetting 
the puzzle it became as soon her positive conclusions had 
to be shaped again. “ But women never can know young 
men,” she wrote to Emma, after praising his good repute 
as one of the brotherhood. 44 He drops pretty sentences 


INTRODUCES THE HON. PERCY DACIER 143 


dow and then : no compliments ; milky nuts. Of course 
he has a head, or he would not be where he is — and that 
seems always to me the most enviable place a young man 
can occupy.” She observed in him a singular conflicting of 
a buoyant animal nature with a curb of studiousness, as if 
the fardels of age were piling on his shoulders before youth 
had quitted its pastures. His build of limbs and his 
features were those of the finely-bred English ; he had the 
English taste for sports, games, manly diversions ; and in 
the bloom of life, under thirty, his head was given to bend. 
The head bending on a tall upright figure, where there was 
breadth of chest, told of weights working. She recollected 
his open look, larger than inquiring, at the introduction to 
her ; and it recurred when she uttered anything specially 
taking. What it meant was past a guess, though compar- 
ing it with the frank directness of Redworth’s eyes, she saw 
the difference between a look that accepted her and one 
that dilated on two opinions. 

Her thought of the gentleman was of a brilliant young 
charioteer in the ruck of the race, watchful for his chance 
to push to the front; and she could have said that a dubi- 
ous consort might spoil a promising career. It flattered 
her to think that she sometimes prompted him, sometimes 
illumined. He repeated sentences she had spoken. — “I 
shall be better able to describe Mr. Dacier when you and 
I sit together, my Emmy, and a stroke here and there 
completes the painting. Set descriptions are good for 
puppets. Living men and women are too various in the 
mixture fashioning them — even the ‘ external present- 
ment * — to be livingly rendered in a formal sketch. I 
may tell you his eyes are pale blue, his features regular, 
his hair silky, brownish, his legs long, his head rather 
stooping (only the head), his mouth commonly closed; 
these are the facts, and you have seen much the same in 
a nursery doll. Such literary craft is of the nursery. So 
with landscapes. The art of the pen (we write on dark- 
ness) is to rouse the inward vision, instead of labouring 
with a Drop-scene brush, as if it were to the eye; because 
3ur flying minds cannot contain a protracted description. 
That is why the poets, who spring imagination with a 
word or a phrase, paint lasting pictures. The Shake- 


144 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


spearian, the Dantesque, are in a line, two at most. He 
lends an attentive ear when I speak, agrees or has a quaint 
pucker of the eyebrows dissenting inwardly. He lacks 
mental liveliness — cheerfulness, I should say, and is 
thankful to have it imparted. One suspects he would be 
a dull domestic companion. He has a veritable thirst for 
hopeful views of the world, and no spiritual distillery of 
his own. He leans to depression. Why! The broken 
reed you call your Tony carries a cargo, all of her manu- 
facture — she reeks of secret stills; and here is a young 
man — a sapling oak — inclined to droop. His nature has 
an air of imploring me queje Varrose! I begin to perform 
Mrs. Dr. Pangloss on purpose to brighten him — the mind, 
the views. He is not altogether deficient in conversa- 
tional gaiety, and he shines in exercise. But the world is 
a poor old ball bounding down a hill — to an Irish melody 
in the evening generally, by request. So far of Mr. Percy 
Dacier, of whom I have some hopes — distant, perhaps 
delusive — that he maybe of use to our cause. He listens. 
It is an auspicious commencement.” 

Lugano is the Italian lake most lovingly encircled by 
mountain arms, and every height about it may be scaled 
with ease. The heights have their nest of waters below 
for a home scene, the southern Swiss peaks, with celestial 
Monta Bosa, in prospect. It was there- that Diana re- 
awakened, after the trance of a deadly draught, to the 
glory of the earth and her share in it. She wakened 
like the Princess of the Kiss; happily not to kisses; to 
no sign, touch or call that she could trace backward. The 
change befell her without a warning. After writing delib- 
erately to her friend Emma, she laid down her pen and 
thought of nothing; and into this dreamfulness a wine 
passed, filling her veins, suffusing her mind, quickening 
her soul*.' — and coming whence? out of air, out of the 
yonder of air. She could have imagined a seraphic pres- 
ence in the room, that bade her arise and live; take the 
cup of the wells of youth arrested at her lips by her mar- 
riage; quit her wintry bondage for warmth, light, space, 
the quick of simple being. And the strange pure ecstasy 
was not a transient electrification ; it came in waves on a 
continuous tide ; looking was living; walking flying. She 


INTRODUCES THE HON. PERCY DACIER 145 

hardly knew that she slept. The heights she had seen 
rosy at eve were marked for her ascent in the dawn. Sleep 
was one wink, and fresh as the dewy field and rockflowers 
on her way upward, she sprang to more and more of 
heaven, insatiable, happily chirruping over her posses- 
sions. The threading of the town among the dear common 
people before others were abroad, was a pleasure: and 
pleasant her solitariness threading the gardens at the base 
of the rock, only she astir; and the first rough steps of 
the winding footpath, the first closed buds,, the sharper 
air, the uprising of the mountain with her ascent; and 
pleasant too was her hunger and the nibble at a little loaf 
of bread. A linnet sang in her breast, an eagle lifted her 
feet. The feet were verily winged, as they are in a season 
of youth when the blood leaps to light from the pressure 
of the under forces, like a source at the wellheads, and 
the whole creature blooms, vital in every energy as a spirit. 
To be a girl again, was magical. She could fancy her hav- 
ing risen from the dead. And to be a girl, with a woman’s 
broader vision and receptiveness of soul, with knowledge 
of evil, and winging to ethereal happiness, this was a 
revelation of our human powers. 

She attributed the change to the influences of nature’s 
beauty and grandeur. Nor had her woman’s consciousness 
to play the chrysalis in any shy recesses of her heart; she 
was nowhere veiled or torpid; she was illumined, like the 
Salvatore she saw in the evening beams and mounted in 
the morning’s ; and she had not a spot of secrecy ; all her 
nature flew and bloomed; she was bird, flower, flowing 
river, a quivering sensibility unweighted, unshrouded. 
Desires and hopes would surely have weighted and 
shrouded her. She had none, save for the upper air, the 
eyes of the mountain. 

Which was the dream — her past life or this ethereal 
existence? But this ran spontaneously, and the other had 
often been stimulated — her vivaciousness on the Nile- 
boat, for a recent example. She had not a doubt that her 
past life was the dream, or deception : and for the reason 
that now she was compassionate, large of heart toward all 
beneath her. Let them but leave her free, they were for 
given* even to prayers for their wellbeing ! The plural 

10 


146 


DlAKA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


number in the case was an involuntary multiplying of the 
single, coming of her incapacity during this elevation and 
rapture of the senses to think distinctly of that One who 
had discoloured her opening life. Freedom to breathe, 
gaze, climb, grow with the grasses, fly with the clouds, to 
muse, to sing, to be an unclaimed self, dispersed upon 
earth, air, sky, to find a keener transfigured self in that 
radiation — she craved no more. 

Bear in mind her beauty, her charm of tongue, her 
present state of white simplicity in fervour: was there 
ever so perilous a woman for the most guarded and 
clearest-eyed of young men to meet at early morn upon a 
mountain side? 


CHAPTER XVI 

TREATS OF A MIDNIGHT BELL, AND OF A SCENE OF 
EARLY MORNING 

On a round of the mountains rising from Osteno, South- 
eastward of Lugano, the Esquart party rose from the 
natural grotto and headed their carriages up and down the 
defiles, halting for a night at Rovio, a little village below 
the Generoso, lively with waterfalls and watercourses; and 
they fell so in love with the place, that after roaming along 
the flowery borderways by moonlight, they resolved to rest 
there two or three days and try some easy ascents. In the 
diurnal course of nature, being pleasantly tired, they had 
the avowed intention of sleeping there; so they went early 
to their beds, and carelessly wished one another good- 
night, none of them supposing slumber to be anywhere one 
of the warlike arts, a paradoxical thing you must battle 
for and can only win at last when utterly beaten. Hard 
by their inn, close enough for a priestly homily to have 
been audible, stood a church campanile, wherein hung a 
Bell, not ostensibly communicating with the demons of 
the pit ; in daylight rather a merry comrade. But at night, 
when the children of nerves lay stretched, he threw off the 
inask. As soon as they had fairly nestled, he smote their 


A MIDNIGHT BELL AND EARLY MORNING 14 ? 

pillows a shattering blow, loud for the retold preluding 
quarters, incredibly clanging the number ten. Then he 
waited for neighbouring campanili to box the ears of slum- 
ber’s votaries in turn; whereupon, under pretence of exces- 
sive conscientiousness, or else oblivious of his antecedent 
damnable misconduct, or perhaps in actual league and 
trapdoor conspiracy with the surging goblin hosts beneath 
us, he resumed his blaring strokes, a sonorous recapitula- 
tion of the number; all the others likewise. It was an 
alarum fit to warn of Attila or Alaric; and not simply the 
maniacal noise invaded the fruitful provinces of sleep like 
Hun and Vandal, the irrational repetition ploughed the 
minds of those unhappy somnivolents, leaving them worse 
than sheared by barbarians, disrupt, as by earthquake, 
with the unanswerable question to Providence, Why ! — 
Why twice? 

Designing slumberers are such infants. When they 
have undressed and stretched themselves flat, it seems 
that they have really gone back to their mothers’ breasts, 
and they fret at whatsoever does not smack of nature, or 
custom. The cause of a repetition so senseless in its vio- 
lence , and so unnecessary, set them querying and kicking 
until the inevitable quarters recommenced. Then arose 
an insurgent rabble in their bosoms,, it might be the 
loosened imps of darkness, urging them to speculate 
whether the proximate monster about to dole out the 
eleventh hour in uproar would again forget himself and 
repeat his dreary arithmetic a second time; for they were 
unaware of his religious obligation, following the hour of 
the district, to inform them of the tardy hour of Rome. 
They waited in suspense, curiosity enabling them to bear 
the first crash callously. His performance was the same. 
And now they took him for a crazy engine whose madness 
had infected the whole neighbourhood. Now was the 
moment to fight for sleep in contempt of him, and they 
began by simulating an entry into the fortress they were 
to defend, plunging on their pillows, battening down their 
eyelids, breathing with a dreadful regularity. Alas! it 
came to their knowledge that the Bell was in possession 
and they the besiegers. Every resonant quarter was 
anticipated up to the blow, without averting its murderous 


148 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


abruptness; and an executioner Midnight that sounded, in 
addition to the reiterated quarters, four and twenty ring- 
ing hammer-strokes, with the aching pause between the 
twelves, left them the prey of the legions of torturers 
which are summed, though not described, in the title of 
a sleepless night. 

From that period the curse was milder, but the victims 
raged. They swam on vasty deeps, they knocked at rusty 
gates, they shouldered all the weapons of black Insomnia’s 
armoury and became her soldiery, doing her will upon 
themselves. Of her originally sprang the inspired teach- 
ing of the doom of men to excruciation in endlessness. 
She is the fountain of the infinite ocean whereon the 
exceedingly sensitive soul is tumbled everlastingly, with 
the diversion of hot pincers to appease its appetite for 
change. 

Dacier was never the best of sleepers. He had taken to 
exercise his brains prematurely, not only in learning, but 
also in reflection; and a reflectiveness that is indulged 
before we have a rigid mastery of the emotions, or have 
slain them, is apt to make a young man more than com- 
monly a child of nerves : nearly as much so as the dissi- 
pated, with the difference that they are hilarious while 
wasting their treasury, which he is not; and he may re- 
cover under favouring conditions, which is a point of van- 
tage denied to them. Physically he had stout reserves, 
for he had not disgraced the temple. His intemperateness 
lay in the craving to rise and lead: a precocious ambition. 
This apparently modest young man started with an aim — 
and if in the distance and with but a slingstone, like the 
slender shepherd fronting the Philistine, all his energies 
were in his aim — at Government. He had hung on the 
fringe of an Administration. His party was out, and he 
hoped for higher station on its return to power. Many 
perplexities were therefore buzzing about his head; among 
them at present one sufficiently magnified and voracious 
to swallow the remainder. He added force to the inter- 
rogation as to why that Bell should sound its inhuman 
strokes twice, by asking himself why he was there to hear 
it ? A strange suspicion of a bewitchment might have 
enlightened him if he had been a man accustomed to yield 


A MIDNIGHT BELL AND EARLY MORNING 149 


to the peculiar kind of sorcery issuing from that sex. He 
rather despised the power of women over men : and never- 
theless he was there, listening to that Bell, instead of 
having obeyed the call of his family duties, when the 
latter were urgent. He had received letters at Lugano, 
summoning him home, before he set forth on his present 
expedition. The noisy alarum told him he floundered in 
quags, like a silly creature chasing a marsh-lamp. But 
was it so? Was it not, on the contrary, a serious pursuit 
of the secret of a woman’s character? — Oh, a woman and 
her character ! Ordinary women and their characters might 
set to work to get what relationship and likeness they 
could. They had no secret to allure. This one had: she 
had the secret of lake waters under rock, unfathomable in 
limpidness. He could not think of her without shooting 
at nature, and nature’s very sweetest and subtlest, for 
comparisons. As to her sex, his active man’s contempt 
of the petticoated secret attractive to boys and graylings, 
made him believe that in her he hunted the mind and the 
spirit: perchance a double mind, a twilighted spirit; but 
not a mere woman. She bore no resemblance to the bundle 
of women. Well, she was worth studying; she had ideas, 
and could give ear to ideas. Furthermore, a couple of the 
members of his family inclined to do her injustice. At 
least, they judged her harshly, owing, he thought, to an 
inveterate opinion they held regarding Lord Dannisburgh’s 
obliquity in relation to women. He shared it, and did not 
concur in their verdict upon the woman implicated. That 
is to say, knowing something of her now, he could see the 
possibility of her innocence in the special charm that her 
mere sparkle of features and speech, and her freshness 
would have for a man like his uncle. The possibility 
pleaded strongly on her behalf, while the darker possi- 
bility weighted by his uncle’s reputation plucked at him 
from below. 

She was delightful to hear, delightful to see; and her 
friends loved her and had faith in her. So clever a 
woman might be too clever for her friends! . . . 

The circle he moved in hummed of women, prompting 
novices as well as veterans to suspect that the multitude 
of them, and notably the fairest, yet more the cleverest, 
"oncealed the sernent soniewliei‘©» 


150 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


She certainly had not directed any of her arts upon him. 
Besides he was half engaged. And that was a burning 
perplexity; not because of abstract scruples touching the 
necessity for love in marriage. The young lady, great 
heiress though she was, and willing, as she allowed him 
to assume; graceful too, reputed a beauty; struck him 
cold. He fancied her transparent, only Arctic. Her 
transparency displayed to him all the common virtues, 
and a serene possession of the inestimable and eminent 
one outweighing all; but charm, wit, ardour, intercom- 
municative quickness, and kindling beauty, airy grace, 
were qualities that a man, it seemed, had to look for in 
women spotted by a doubt of their having the chief and 
priceless. 

However, he was not absolutely plighted. Nor did it 
matter to him whether this or that woman concealed the 
tail of the serpent and trail, excepting the singular interest 
this woman managed to excite, and so deeply as set him 
wondering how that Resurrection Bell might be affecting 
her ability to sleep. Was she sleeping? — or waking? 
His nervous imagination was a torch that alternately lighted 
her lying asleep with the innocent, like a babe, and toss- 
ing beneath the overflow of her dark hair, hounded by 
haggard memories. She fluttered before him in either 
aspect; and another perplexity now was to distinguish 
within himself which was the aspect he preferred. Great 
Nature brought him thus to drink of her beauty, under the 
delusion that the act was a speculation on her character. 

The Bell, with its clash, throb and long swoon of sound, 
^reminded him of her name: Diana — An attribute? or a 
derision? 

It really mattered nothing to him, save for her being 
maligned; and if most unfairly, then that face of the vary- 
ing expressions, and the rich voice, and the remembered 
gentle and taking words coming from her, appealed to him 
with a supplicating vividness that pricked his heart to 
leap. 

He was dozing when the Bell burst through the thin 
division between slumber and wakefulness, recounting what 
seemed innumerable peals, hard on his cranium. Gray 
daylight blanched the window and the bed: his watch said 


A MIDNIGHT BELL AND EARLY MORNING 15l 

five of the morning. He thought of the pleasure of a bath 
beneath some dashing sprayshowers, and jumped up to 
dress, feeling a queer sensation of skin in his clothes, the 
sign of a feverish night; and yawning he went into the air. 
beftward the narrow village* street led to the footway along 
which he could make for the mountain-wall. He cast one 
look at the head of the campanile, silly as an owlish 
roysterer’s glazed stare at the young Aurora, and hurried 
his feet to check the yawns coming alarmingly fast, in the 
place of ideas. 

His elevation above the valley was about the kneecap of 
the Generoso. Waters of past rain-clouds poured down 
the mountain-sides like veins of metal, here and there 
flinging off a shower on the busy descent; only dubiously 
animate in the lack lustre of the huge bulk piled against 
a yellow East that wafted fleets of pinky cloudlets over- 
head. He mounted his path to a level with inviting grass- 
mounds where water circled, running from scoops and cups 
to curves and brook-streams, and in his fancy calling to 
him to hear them. To dip in them was his desire. To 
roll and shiver braced by the icy flow was the spell to 
break that baleful incantation of the intolerable night; so 
he struck across a ridge of boulders, wreck of a landslip 
from the height he had hugged, to the open space of 
shadowed undulations, and soon had his feet on turf. 
Heights to right and to left, and between them, aloft, a 
sky the rosy wheelcourse of the chariot of morn, and 
below, among the knolls, choice of sheltered nooks, where 
waters whispered of secrecy to satisfy Diana herself. They 
have that whisper and waving of secrecy in secret scenery; 
they beckon to the bath; and they conjure classic visions 
of the pudency of the Goddess irate or unsighted. The 
semi-mythological state of mind, built of old images and 
favouring haunts, was known to Dacier. The name of 
Diana, playing vaguely on his consciousness, helped to it. 
He had no definite thought of the mortal woman when the 
highest grass-roll near the rock gave him view of a bowered 
source and of a pool under a chain of cascades, bounded 
by polished shelves and slabs. The very spot for him, he 
decided at the first peep; and at the second, with fingers 
instinctively loosening his waistcoat-buttons for a com 


152 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


mencement, he shouldered round and strolled away, though 
not at a rapid pace, nor far before he halted. 

That it could be no other than she, the figure he had 
seen standing beside the pool, he was sure. Why had he 
turned? Thoughts thick and swift as a blush in the cheeks 
of seventeen overcame him ; and queen of all, the thought 
bringing the picture of this mountain-solitude to vindicate 
a woman shamefully assailed. — She who found her pleas- 
ure in these haunts of nymph and Goddess, at the fresh 
cold bosom of nature, must be clear as day. She trusted 
herself to the loneliness here, and to the honour of men, 
from a like irreflective sincereness. She was unable to 
imagine danger where her own impelling thirst was 
pure. . . . 

The thoughts, it will be discerned, were but flashes of 
a momentary vivid sensibility. Where a woman’s charm 
has won half the battle, her character is an advancing 
standard and sings victory, let her do no more than take a 
quiet morning walk* before breakfast. 

But why had he turned his back on her? There was 
nothing in his presence to alarm, nothing in her appear- 
ance to forbid. The motive and the movement were equally 
quaint; incomprehensible to him; for after putting him- 
self out of sight, he understood the absurdity of the sup- 
position that she would seek the secluded sylvan bath for 
the same purpose as he. Yet now he was debarred from 
going to meet her. She might have an impulse to bathe 
her feet. Her name was Diana. . . . 

Yes, and a married woman; and a proclaimed one! And 
notwithstanding those brassy facts, he was ready to side 
with the evidence declaring her free from stain; and 
further, to swear that her blood was Diana’s! 

Nor had Dacier ever been particularly poetical about 
women. The present Diana had wakened his curiosity, 
had stirred his interest in her, pricked his admiration, but 
gradually, until a sleepless night with its flock of raven- 
fancies under that dominant Bell, ended by colouring her, 
the moment she stood in his eyes, as freshly as the morn- 
ing heavens. We are much influenced in youth by sleep- 
less nights: they disarm, they predispose us to submit to 
soft occasion; and in our youth occasion is always coming. 


A MIDNIGHT BELL AND EARLY MORNING 153 


He heard her voice. She had risen up the grass-mound, 
and he hung brooding half-way down. She was dressed 
in some texture of the hue of lavender. A violet scarf 
loosely knotted over the bosom opened on her throat. The 
loop of her black hair curved under a hat of grey beaver. 
Memorably radiant was her face. 

They met, exchanged greetings, praised the beauty of 
the morning, and struck together on the Bell. She laughed : 
“ I heard it at ten ; I slept till four. I never wake later. 
I was out in the air by half-past. Were you disturbed? ” 

He alluded to his troubles with the Bell. 

“It sounded like a felon’s heart in skeleton ribs,” he 
said. 

“Or a proser’s tongue in a hollow skull,” said she. 

He bowed to her conversible readiness, and at once 
fell into the background, as he did only with her, to per- 
form accordant bass in their dialogue ; for when a woman 
lightly caps our strained remarks, we gallantly surren- 
der the leadership, lest she should too cuttingly assert 
her claim. 

Some sweet wild cyclamen flowers were at her breast. 
She held in her left hand a bunch of buds and blown cups 
of the pale purple meadow-crocus. He admired them. 
She told him to look round. He confessed to not having 
noticed them in the grass: what was the name? Colchi- 
cum, in Botany, she said. 

“These are plucked to be sent to a friend; otherwise 
I ’m reluctant to take the life of flowers for a whim. 
Wild flowers, I mean. I am not sentimental about garden 
flowers: they are cultivated for decoration, grown for 
clipping.” 

“I suppose they don’t carry the same signification,” 
said Dacier, in the tone of a pupil to such themes. 

“They carry no feeling,” said she. “And that is my 
excuse for plucking these, where they seem to spring like 
our town-dream of happiness. I believe they are sensible 
of it too; but these must do service to my invalid friend, 
who cannot travel. Are you ever as much interested in 
the woes of great ladies as of country damsels? I am not 
— . not unless they have natural distinction. You have 
met Lady Dunstane?” 


154 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


The question sounded artless. Dacier answered that he 
thought he had seen her somewhere once, and Diana shut 
her lips on a rising under-smile. 

“She is the cceur <Vor of our time: the one soul I would 
sacrifice these flowers to.” 

“A bit of ,a blue-stocking, I think I have heard said.” 

“ She might have been admitted to the Hotel Bambouillet, 
without being anything of a Precieuse. She is the woman 
of the largest heart now beating.” 

“ Mr. Eedworth talked of her.” 

“As she deserved, I am sure.” 

“Very warmly.” 

“ He would 1 ” 

“He told me you were the Damon and Pythias of 
women.” 

“ Her one fault is an extreme humility that makes her 
always play second to me; and as I am apt to gabble, I 
take the lead; and I am froth in comparison. I can rever- 
ence my superiors even when tried by intimacy with them. 
She is the next heavenly thing to heaven that I know. 
Court her, if ever you come across her. Or have you a 
man’s horror of women with brains?” 

“Am I expressing it?” said he. 

“Do not breathe London or Paris here on me.” She 
fanned the crocuses under her chin. “The early morning 
always has this — I wish I had a word ! — touch . . . 
whisper . . . gleam . . . beat of wings — 1 envy poets 
now more than ever ! — of Eden, I was going to say. Prose 
can paint evening and moonlight, but poets are needed to 
sing the dawn. That is because prose is equal to melan- 
choly stuff. Gladness requires the finer language. Other- 
wise we have it coarse — anything but a reproduction. 
You politicians despise the little distinctions 1 twixt 
tweedledum and tweedledee,’ I fancy.” 

Of the poetic sort, Dacier’s uncle certainly did. For 
himself he confessed to not having thought much on them. 

“But how divine is utterance 1” she said. “As we to 
the brutes, poets are to us.” 

He listened somewhat with the head of the hanged. A 
beautiful woman choosing to rhapsodize has her way, and 
is not subjected to the critical commentary within us. He 


A MIDNIGHT BELL AND EARLY MORNING 155 


wondered whether she had discoursed in such a fashion to 
his uncle. • 

“I can read good poetry,” said he. 

“If you would have this valley — or mountain-cleft, one 
should call it — described, only verse could do it for you,” 
Diana pursued, and stopped, glanced at his face and 
smiled. She had spied the end of a towel peeping out of 
one of his pockets. “You came out for a bath ! Go back, 
by all means, and mount that rise of grass where you first 
saw me; and down on the other side, a little to the right, 
you will find the very place for a bath, at a corner of the 
rock — a natural fountain ; a bubbling pool in a ring of 
brushwood, with falling water, so tempting that I could 
have pardoned a push : about five feet deep. Lose no time.” 

He begged to assure her that he would rather stroll with 
her : it had been only a notion of bathing by chance when 
he pocketed the towel. 

“Dear me,” she nried, “if I had been a man I should 
have scurried off at a signal of release, quick as a hare I 
once woke up in a field with my foot on its back.” 

Dacier’s eyebrows knotted a trifle over her eagerness to 
dismiss him : he was not used to it, but rather to be courted 
by Avomen, and to condescend. 

“I shall not long, I hn afraid, have the pleasure of walk- 
ing beside j^ou and hearing you. I had letters at Lugano. 
My uncle is unwell, I hear.” 

“Lord Dannisburgh?” 

The name sprang from her lips unhesitatingly. 

His nodded affirmative altered her face and her voice. 

“It is not a grave illness?” 

“They rather fear it.” 

“You had the news at Lugano? ” 

He answered the implied reproach: “I can be of no 
service.” 

“ But surely ! ” 

“ It ’s even doubtful that he would be bothered to receive 
me. We hold no views in common — excepting one.” 

“Could I?” she exclaimed. “0 that I might! If he 
is really ill! But if it is actually serious he would per- 
haps have a wish ... I can nurse. I know I have the 
power to cheer him. You ought indeed to be in England.' 1 


156 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Dacier said he had thought it better to wait for latei 
reports. “ I shall drive to Lugano this afternoon, and act 
on the information I get there. Probably it ends my 
holiday.” 

“Will you do me the favour to write me word? — and 
especially tell me if you think he would like to have me 
near him,” said Diana. “And let him know that if he 
wants nursing or cheerful companionship, I am at any 
moment ready to come.” 

The flattery of a beautiful young woman to wait on him 
would be very agreeable to Lord Dannisburgh, Dacier 
conceived. Her offer to go was possibly purely charitable. 
But the prudence of her occupation of the post obscured 
whatever appeared admirable in her devotedness. Her 
choice of a man like Lord Dannisburgh for the friend to 
whom she could sacrifice her good name less falteringly 
than she gathered those field-flowers was inexplicable; 
and she herself a darker riddle at each step of his 
reading. 

He promised curtly to write. “I will do my best to hit 
a flying address.” 

“Your Club enables me to hit a permanent one that will 
establish the communication,” said Diana. “We shall not 
sleep another night at Rovio. Lady Esquart is the lightest 
of sleepers, and if you had a restless time, she and her 
husband must have been in purgatory. Besides, permit 
me to say, you should be with your party. The times are 
troublous — not for holidays ! Your holiday has had a 
haunted look, creditably to your conscience as a politician. 
These Corn Law agitations ! ” 

“Ah, but no politics here! ” said Dacier. 

“Politics everywhere! — in the Courts of Faery ! They 
are not discord to me.” 

“But not the last day — the last hour! ” he pleaded. 

“WeB! only do not forget your assurance to me that 
you would give some thoughts to Ireland — and the cause 
of women. Has it slipped from your memory? ” 

“ If I see the chance of serving you, you may trust to 
me.” 

She sent up an interjection on the misfortune of her not 
having been Dorn a man- 


A MIDNIGHT BELL AND EARLY MORNING 157 


It was to him the one smart of sourness in her charm as 
a, woman. 

Among the boulder-stones of the ascent to the path, he 
ventured to propose a little masculine assistance in a hand 
stretched mutely. Although there was no great need for 
help, her natural kindliness checked the inclination to 
refuse it. When their hands disjoined she found herself 
reddening. She cast it on the exertion. Her heart was 
throbbing. It might be the exertion likewise. 

He walked and talked much more airily along the 
descending pathway, as if he had suddenly become more 
intimately acquainted with her. 

She listened, trying to think of the manner in which he 
might be taught to serve that cause she had at heart; and 
the colour deepened on her cheeks till it set fire to her 
underlying consciousness: blood to spirit. A tremor of 
alarm ran through her. 

His request for one of the crocuses to keep as a souvenir 
of the morning was refused. “ They are sacred; they were 
all devoted to niy friend when I plucked them.” 

He pointed to a half-open one, with the petals in dis- 
parting pointing to junction, and compared it to the famous 
tiptoe ballet-posture, arms above head and fingers like 
swallows meeting in air, of an operatic danseuse of the 
time. 

“I do not see it, because I will not see it,” she said, 
and she found a personal cooling and consolement in the 
phrase. — We have this power of resisting invasion of the 
poetic by the commonplace, the spirit by the blood, if we 
please, though you men may not think that we have ! — 
Her alarmed sensibilities bristled and made head against 
him as an enemy. She fancied (for the aforesaid reason 
— because she chose) that it was on account of the offence 
to her shy morning pleasure by his Londonizing. At any 
other moment her natural liveliness and trained social ease 
would have taken any remark on the eddies of the tide of 
converse; and so she told herself, and did not the less 
feel wounded, adverse, armed. He seemed somehow to 
have dealt a mortal blow to the happy girl she had become 
again. The woman she was protested on behalf of the 
girl, while the girl ift her heart bent lowered sad eyelids 


158 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

to the woman ; and which of them was wiser of the truth 
she could not have said, for she was honestly not aware of 
the truth, but she knew she was divided in halves, with 
one half pitying the other, one rebuking: and all because 
of the incongruous comparison of a wild flower to an opera 
dancer! Absurd indeed. We human creatures, are the 
silliest on earth, most certainly. 

Dacier had observed the blush, and the check to her 
flowing tongue did not escape him as they walked back 
to the inn down the narrow street of black rooms, where 
the women gossiped at the fountain and the cobbler 
threaded on his doorstep. His novel excitement supplied 
the deficiency, sweeping him past minor reflections. He 
was, however, surprised to hear her tell Lady Esquart, as 
soon as they were together at the breakfast-table, that he 
had the intention of starting for England; and further 
surprised, and slightly stung too, when on the poor lady’s 
moaning over her recollection of the midnight Bell, and 
vowing she could not attempt to sleep another night in the 
place, Diana declared her resolve to stay there one day 
longer with her maid, and explore the neighbourhood for 
the wild flowers in which it abounded. Lord and Lady 
Esquart agreed to anything agreeable to her, after excusing 
themselves for the necessitated flight, piteously relating 
the story of their sufferings. My lord could have slept, 
but he had remained awake to comfort my lady. 

“ True knightliness ! ” Diana said, in praise of these 
long married lovers; and she asked them what they had 
talked of during the night. 

“ You, my dear, partly,” said Lady Esquart. 

“ For an opiate ? ” 

“ An invocation of the morning, ” said Dacier. 

Lady Esquart looked at Diana and at him. She thought 
it was well that her fair friend should stay. It was then 
settled for Diana to rejoin them the next evening at Lugano, 
thence to proceed to Luino on the Maggiore. 

“ I fear it is good-bye for me,” Dacier said to her, as he 
was about to step into the carriage with the Esquarts. 

“If you have not better news of your uncle, it must be,” 
she replied, and gave him her hand promptly and formally, 
hardly diverting her eyes from Lady Esquart to grace the 


A MIDNIGHT BELL AND EARLY MORNING 159 


temporary gift with a look. The last of her he saw was a 
waving of her arm and a finger pointing triumphantly at 
the Bell in the tower. It said, to an understanding un- 
practised in the feminine mysteries : “ I can sleep through 
anything.” What that revealed of her state of conscience 
and her nature, his efforts to preserve the lovely optical 
figure blocked his guessing. He was with her friends, who 
liked her the more they knew her, and he was compelled to 
lean to their view of the perplexing woman. 

“ She is a riddle to the world,” Lady Esquart said, “ but 
I know that she is good. It is the best of signs when 
women take to her and are proud to be her friend.” 

My lord echoed his wife. She talked in this homely 
manner to stop any notion of philandering that the young 
gentleman might be disposed to entertain in regard to a 
lady so attractive to the pursuit as Diana’s beauty and 
delicate situation might make her seem. 

“ She is an exceedingly clever person, and handsomer 
than report, which is uncommon,” said Dacier, becoming 
voluble on town-topics, Miss Asper incidentally among 
them. He denied Lady Esquart’s charge of an engage- 
ment ; the matter hung. 

His letters at Lugano summoned him to England in- 
stantly. 

“ I have taken leave of Mrs. Warwick, but tell her I 
regret, et caetera,” he said ; “and by the way, as my uncle’s 
illness appears to be serious, the longer she is absent the 
better, perhaps.” 

“ It would never do,” said Lady Esquart, understanding 
his drift immediately. “ We winter in Rome. She will not 
abandon us — I have her word for it. Next Easter we are 
in Paris ; and so home, I suppose. There will be no hurry 
before we are due at Cowes. We seem to have become con- 
firmed wanderers ; for two of us at least it is likely to be 
our last great tour.” 

Dacier informed her that he had pledged his word to 
write to Mrs. Warwick of his uncle’s condition, and the 
several appointed halting-places of the Esquarts between 
the lakes and Florence were named to him. Thus all things 
were openly treated ; all had an air of being on the surface ; 
the communications passing between Mrs. Warwick and 


160 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


the Hon. Percy Dacier might have been perused by all the 
world. None but that portion of it, sage in suspiciousness, 
which objects to such communications under any circum- 
stances, could have^detected in their correspondence a spark 
of coming fire or that there was common warmth. She did 
not feel it, nor did he. The position of the two interdicted 
it to a couple honourably sensible of social decencies ; and 
who were, be it added, kept apart. The blood is the 
treacherous element in the story of the nobly civilized, of 
which secret Diana, a wife and no wife, a prisoner in liberty, 
a blooming woman imagining herself restored to tran- 
scendent maiden ecstasies — the highest youthful poetic — 
had received some faint intimation when the blush flamed 
suddenly in her cheeks and her heart knelled like the 
towers of a city given over to the devourer. She had no 
wish to meet him again. Without telling herself why, she 
would have shunned the meeting. Disturbers that thwarted 
her simple happiness in sublime scenery were best avoided. 
She thought so the more for a fitful blur to the simplicity 
of her sensations, and a task she sometimes had in restoring 
and toning them, after that sweet morning time in Rovio. 


CHAPTER XVII 

" THE PRINCESS EGERIA ” 

London, say what we will of it, is after all the head of 
the British giant, and if not the liveliest in bubbles, it is 
past competition the largest broth-pot of brains anywhere 
simmering on the hob : over the steadiest of furnaces too. 
And the oceans and the continents, as you know, are per- 
petual and copious contributors, either to the heating 
apparatus or to the contents of the pot. Let grander 
similes be sought. This one fits for the smoky receptacle 
cherishing millions, magnetic to tens of millions more, with 
its caked outside of grime, and the inward substance inces- 
santly kicking the lid, prankish, but never casting it off. 
A good stew, you perceive j not a parlous boiling. Weak 


" THE PRINCESS EGERIa 


161 


as we may be in our domestic cookery, our political has 
been sagaciously adjusted as yet to catch the ardours of the 
furnace without being subject to their volcanic activities. 

That the social is also somewhat at fault, we have proof 
in occasional outcries over the absence of these or those par- 
ticular persons famous for inspiriting. It sticks and clogs. 
The improvizing songster is missed, the convivial essayist, 
the humorous Dean, the travelled cynic, and he, the one of 
his day, the iridescent Irishman, whose remembered rep- 
artees are a feast, sharp and ringing, at divers tables de- 
scending from the upper to the fat citizen’s, where, instead 
of coming in the sequence of talk, they are exposed by 
blasting, like fossil teeth of old Deluge sharks in monoto- 
nous walls of our chalk-quarries. Nor are these the less 
welcome for the violence of their introduction among a 
people glad to be set burning rather briskly awhile by the 
most unexpected of digs in the ribs. Dan Merion, to give 
an example. That was Dan Merion’s joke with the watch- 
man : and he said that other thing to the Marquis of Kings- 
bury, when the latter asked him if he had ever won a 
donkejr-race. And old Dan is dead, and we are the duller 
for it ! which leads to the question : Is geuius hereditary ? 
And the affirmative and negative are respectively main- 
tained, rather against the Yes in the dispute, until a mem- 
ber of the audience speaks of Dan Merion’s having left a 
daughter reputed for a sparkling wit not much below the 
level of his own. Why, are you unaware that the Mrs. 
Warwick of that scandal case of Warwick versus Dannis- 
burgh was old Dan Merion’s girl and his only child? It is 
true ; for a friend had it from a man who had it straight 
from Mr. Braddock, of the firm of Braddock, Thorpe, and 
Simnel, her solicitors in the action, who told him he could 
sit listening to her for hours, and that she was as innocent 
as day ; a wonderful combination of a good woman and a 
clever woman and a real beauty. Only her misfortune was 
to have a furiously jealous husband, and they say he went 
mad after hearing the verdict. 

Diana was talked of in the London circles. A witty 
woman is such salt that where she has once been tasted she 
must perforce be missed more than any of the absent, the 
dowering heavens not having yet showered her like very 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


162 

plentifully upon us. Then it was first heard that Percy 
Dacier had been travelling with her. Miss Asper heard of 
it. Her uncle, Mr. Quintin Manx, the millionnaire, was an 
acquaintance of the new Judge and titled dignitary, Sir 
Cramborne Wathin, and she visited Lady Wathin, at whose 
table the report in the journals of the. Nile-boat party was 
mentioned. Lady Wathin’s table could dispense with witty 
women, and, for that matter, witty men. The intrusion of 
the spontaneous on the stereotyped would have clashed. 
She preferred, as hostess, the old legal anecdotes sure of 
their laugh, and the citations from the manufactories of 
fun in the Press, which were current and instantly intel- 
ligible to all her guests. She smiled suavely on an inv 
promptu pun, because her experience of the humorous 
appreciation of it by her guests bade her welcome the up- 
start. Nothing else impromptu was acceptable. Mrs. 
Warwick therefore was not missed by Lady Wathin. “I 
have met her,” she said. “ I confess I am not one of the 
fanatics about Mrs. Warwick. She has a sort of skill in 
getting men to clamour. If you stoop to tickle them, they 
will applaud. It is a way of winning a reputation.” When 
the ladies were separated from the gentlemen by the stream 
of Claret, Miss Asper heard Lady Wathin speak of Mrs. 
Warwick again. An illusion to Lord Dan n is burgh’s fit of 
illness in the House of Lords led to her saying that there 
was no doubt he had been fascinated, and that, in her 
opinion, Mrs. Warwick was a dangerous woman. Sir 
Cramborne knew something of Mr. Warwick : “ Poor 
man ! ” she added. A lady present put a question concern- 
ing Mrs. Warwick’s beauty. “ Yes,” Lady Wathin said, 
“she has good looks to aid her. Judging from what I hear 
and have seen, her thirst Is for notoriety. Sooner or later 
we shall have her making a noise, you may be certain. 
Yes, she has the secret of dressing well — in the French 
style.” 

A simple newspaper report of the expedition of a Nile- 
boat party could stir the Powers to take her up and turn 
her on their wheel in this manner. 

But others of the sons and daughters of London were 
regretting her prolonged absence. The great and exclusive 
Whitmonby, who had dined once at Lady Wathin’s table, 


“THE PRINCESS EGERIA ” 163 

and vowed never more to repeat that offence to his patience, 
lamented bitterly to Henry Wilmers that the sole woman 
worthy of sitting at a little Sunday evening dinner with 
the cream of the choicest men of the time was away wast- 
ing herself in that insane modern chase of the picturesque ! 
He called her a perverted Celimene. 

Redworth had less to regret than the rest of her male 
friends, as he was receiving at intervals pleasant descrip- 
tive letters, besides manuscript sheets of Antonia’s new 
piece of composition, to correct the proofs for the press, 
and he read them critically, he thought. He read them 
with a watchful eye to guard them from the critics. An- 
tonia, whatever her faults as a writer, was not one of the 
order whose Muse is the Public Taste. She did at least 
draw her inspiration from herself, and there was much to 
be feared in her work, if a sale was the object. Otherwise 
Redworth’s highly critical perusal led him flatly to admire. 
This was like her, and that was like her, and here and 
there a phrase gave him the very play of her mouth, the 
flash of her eyes. Could he possibly wish, or bear, to have 
anything altered ? But she had reason to desire an ex- 
tended sale of the work. Her aim, in the teeth of her in- 
dependent style, was at the means of independence — a 
feminine method of attempting to conciliate contraries ; 
and after despatching the last sheets to the printer, he 
meditated upon the several ways which might serve to as- 
sist her; the main way running thus in his mind: — We 
have a work of genius. Genius is good for the public. 
What is good for the public should be recommended by the 
critics. It should be. How then to come at them to get it 
done ? As he was not a member of the honourable literary 
craft, and regarded its arcana altogether externally, it may 
be confessed of him that he deemed the Incorruptible cor- 
ruptible; — not, of course, with filthy coin slid 'into sticky 
palms. Critics are human, and exceedingly, beyond the 
common lot, when touched; and they are excited by mys- 
terious hints of loftiness in authorship; by rumours of 
veiled loveliness; whispers of a general anticipation; and 
also Editors can jog them. Redworth was rising to be a 
Railway King of a period soou to glitter with rails, iron in 
the concrete, golden in the visionary. He had already his 


m 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Court, much against his will. The powerful magnetic at 
tractions of those who can help the world to fortune, was 
exercised by him in spite of his disgust of sycophants. He 
dropped words to right and left of a coming work by An- 
tonia. And who was Antonia ? — Ah ! there hung the 
riddle. — An exalted personage ? — So much so that he 
dared not name her even in confidence to ladies ; he named 
the publishers. To men he said he was at liberty to speak 
of her only as the most beautiful woman of her time. His 
courtiers of both sexes were recommended to read the new 
story, The Princess Egeria. 

Oddly, one great lady of his Court had heard a forthcom- 
ing work of this title spoken of by Percy Dacier, not a man 
to read silly fiction, unless there was meaning behind the 
lines : tbat is, rich scandal of the aristocracy, diversified by 
stinging epigrams to the address of discernible personages. 
She talked of The Princess Egeria : nay, laid her finger 
on the identical Princess. Others followed her. Dozens 
were soon flying with the torch : a new work immediately 
to be published from the pen of the Duchess of Stars ! — 
And the Princess who lends her title to the book is a living 
portrait of the Princess of Highest Eminence, the Hope 
of all Civilization. — Orders for copies of The Princess 
Egeria reached the astonished publishers before the book 
was advertized. 

Speaking to editors, Redworth complimented them with 
friendly intimations of the real authorship of the remark- 
able work appearing. He used a certain penetrative mild' 
ness of tone in saying that ‘‘he hoped the book would 
succeed : ” it deserved to; it was original; but the original- 
ity might tell against it. All would depend upon a favour- 
able launching of such a book. “ Mrs. Warwick ? Mrs. 
Warwick ? ” said the most influential of editors, Mr. Marcus 
To nans ; “ what ! that singularly handsome woman ? . . . 
The Dannisburgh affair ? . . . She ’s Whitmonby’s hero- 
ine. If she writes as cleverly as she talks, her work is 
worth trumpeting. ” He promised to see that it went into 
good hands for the review, and a prompt review — an es- 
sential point ; none of your long digestions of the contents. 

Diana’s indefatigable friend had fair assurances that her 
book would be noticed before it dropped dead to the public 


“THE PRINCESS EGERIA ” 165 

appetite for novelty. He was anxious next, notwithstand- 
ing his admiration of the originality of the conception and 
the cleverness of the writing, lest the Literary Reviews 
should fail “to do it justice:” he used the term; for if 
they wounded her, they would take the pleasure out of suc- 
cess ; and he had always present to him that picture of the 
beloved woman kneeling at the fire-grate at The Crossways, 
which made the thought of her suffering any wound his 
personal anguish, so crucially sweet and saintly had her 
image then been stamped on him. He bethought him, in 
consequence, while sitting in the House of Commons, en- 
gaged upon the affairs of the nation, and honestly engaged, 
for he was a vigilant worker — that the Irish Secretary, 
Charles Rainer, with whom he stood in amicable relations, 
had an interest, to the extent of reputed ownership, in the 
chief of the Literary Reviews. He saw Rainer on the 
benches, and marked him to speak to him. Looking for 
him shortly afterward, the man was gone. “Off to the 
Opera, if he ’s not too late for the drop,” a neighbour said, 
smiling queerly, as though he ought to know ; and then 
Redworth recollected current stories of Rainer’s fantastical 
devotion to the popular prima donna of the angelical voice. 
He hurried to the Opera and met the vomit, and heard in 
the crush-room how divine she had been that night. A 
fellow member of the House, tolerably intimate with Rainer, 
informed him, between frightful stomachic roulades of her 
final aria, of the likeliest place where Rainer might be 
found when the Opera was over : not at his Club, nor at 
his chambers: on one of the bridges — Westminster, he 
fancied. 

There was no need for Redworth to run hunting the man 
at so late an hour, but he was drawn on by the similarity 
in dissimilarity of this devotee of a woman, who could wor- 
ship her at a distance, and talk of her to everybody. Not 
till he beheld Rainer’s tall figure cutting the bridge-parapet, 
with a star over his shoulder, did he reflect on the views 
the other might entertain of the nocturnal solicitation to 
see “justice done ” to a lady’s new book in a particular Re- 
view, and the absurd outside of the request was immedi- 
ately smothered by the natural simplicity and pressing 
necessity of its inside. 


166 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


He crossed the road and said, “ Ah ? ” in recognition* 
u Were you at the Opera this evening ? ” 

“ Oh, just at the end,” said Rainer, pacing forward. 
“ It ’s a fine night. Did you hear her ? ” 

“ No ; too late.” 

Rainer pressed ahead, to meditate by himself, as was his 
wont. Finding Redworth beside him, he monologuized in 
his depths : “ They ’ll kill her. She puts her soul into it, 
gives her blood. There ’s no failing of the voice. You 
see how it wears her. She ’s doomed. Half a year’s rest 
on Como . . . somewhere . . . she might be saved ! She 
won’t refuse to work.” 

“ Have you spoken to her ? ” said Redworth. 

“ And next to Berlin ! Vienna ! A horse would be 

I ? I don’t know her,” Rainer replied. “ Some of their 
women stand it. She ’s delicately built. You can’t treat 
a lute like a drum without destroying the instrument. We 
look on at a murder ! ” 

The haggard prospect from that step of the climax 
checked his delivery. 

Redworth knew him to be a sober man in office, a man 
with a head for statecraft : he had made a weighty speech 
in the House a couple of hours back. This Opera cantatrice, 
no beauty, though gentle, thrilling, winning, was his corner 
of romance. 

“ Do you come here often ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, I can’t sleep.” 

“ London at night, from the bridge, looks fine. By the 
way ...” 

“It’s lonely here, that’s the advantage,” said Rainer; “I 
keep silver in my pocket for poor girls going to their 
homes, and I ’m left peace. An hour later there ’s the 
dawn down yonder.” 

“ By the way,” Redworth interposed, and was told that 
after these nights of her singing she never slept till 
morning. He swallowed the fact, sympathized, and resumed : 
“I want a small favour.” 

“ No business here, please ! ” 

“ Not a bit of it. You know Mrs. Warwick. . . . You 
know of her. She’s publishing a book. I want you to 
use your influence to get it noticed quickly, if you can.” 


167 


“THE PRINCESS EGERIA” 

“ Warwick ? Oh, yes, a handsome woman. Ah, yes ,* 
the Dannisburgh affair, yes. What did I hear!, — They 
say she ’s thick with Percy Dacier at present. Who was 
talking of her! Yes, old Lady Dacier. So she ’s a friend 
of yours ? ” 

“ She ’s an old friend, ” said Kedworth, composing himself ; 
for the dose he had taken was not of the sweetest, and no 
protestations could be uttered by a man of the world to 
repel a charge of tattlers. “ The truth is, her book is clever. 
I have read the proofs. She must have an income, and she 
won’t apply to her husband, and literature should help her, 
if she ’s fairly treated. She ’s Irish by descent ; Merion’s 
daughter, witty as her father. It ’s odd you have n’t met 
her. The mere writing of the book is extraordinarily good. 
If it *s put into capable hands for review ! that ’s all it 
requires. And full of life . . . bright dialogue . . . 
capital sketches. The book ’s a piece of literature. Only 
it must have competent critics ! ” 

So he talked while Kainer ejaculated : “ Warwick ? 
Warwick ? ” in the irritating tone of dozens of others. 
“ What did I hear of her husband ? He has a post. . . . 
Yes, yes. Some one said the verdict in that case knocked 
him over — heart disease, or something.” 

He glanced at the dark Thames water. “Take my word 
for it, the groves of Academe won’t compare with one of 
our bridges at night, if you seek philosophy. You see the 
London above and the London below : round us the sleepy 
city, and the stars in the water looking like souls of suicides. 
I caught a girl with a bad fit on her once. I had to lecture 
her! It ’s when we become parsons we find out our cousin- 
ship with these poor peripatetics, whose ‘last philosophy’ 
is a jump across the parapet. The bridge at night is a bath 
for a public man. But choose another ; leave me mine.” 

Redwortli took the hint. He stated the title of Mrs. 
Warwick’s book, and imagined from the thoughtful cast 
of Earner’s head, that he was impressing The Princess 
Egeria on his memory. 

Kainer burst out, with clenched fists: “He beats her! 
The fellow lives on her and beats her; strikes that woman! 
He drags her about to every Capital in Europe to make 
money for him, and the scoundrel pays her with blows.” 


168 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


In the course of a heavy tirade against the scoundrel, 
Redworth apprehended that it was the cantatrice’s hus- 
^nd. He expressed his horror and regret ; paused, and 
named The Princess Egeria and a certain Critical Re- 
view. Another outburst seemed to be in preparation. 
Nothing further was to be done for the book at that hour. 
So, with a blunt “Good night,” he left Charles Rainer 
pacing, and thought on his walk home of the strange effects 
wrought by women unwittingly upon men (Englishmen) ; 
those women, or some of them, as little knowing it as the 
moon her traditional influence upon the tides. He thought 
of Percy Racier too. In his bed he could have wished 
himself peregrinating a bridge. 

The Princess Egerta appeared, with the reviews at her 
heels, a pack of clappers, causing her to fly over editions 
clean as a doe the gates and hedges — to quote Mr. Sullivan 
Smith, who knew not a sentence of the work save what he 
gathered of it from Redworth, at their chance meeting on 
Piccadilly pavement, and then immediately he knew enough 
to blow his huntsman’s horn in honour of the sale. His 
hallali rang high. “ Here ’s another Irish girl to win their 
laurels ! ’T is one of the blazing successes. A most en- 
thralling work, beautifully composed. And where is she 
now, Mr. Redworth, since she broke away from that hus- 
band of hers, that wears the clothes of the worst tailor ever 
begotten by a thread on a needle, as I tell every soul of ’em 
in my part of the country ? ” 

“You have seen him?” said Redworth. 

“Why, sir, wasn’t he on show at the Court he applied to 
for relief and damages ? as we heard when we were watch- 
ing the case daily, scarce drawing our breath for fear the 
innocent — and one of our own blood, would be crushed. 
Sure, there he stood ; ay, and looking the very donkey for 
a woman to flip off her fingers, like the dust from my great 
uncle’s prise of snuff ! She ’s a glory to the old country. 
And better you than another, I ’d say, since it was n’t an 
Irishman to have her : but what induced the dear lady to 
take him , is the question we ’re all of us asking ! And it ’s 
mournful to think that somehow you contrive to get the 
pick of us in the girls ! If ever we ’re united, ’t will be by 
a trick of circumvention of that sort, pretty sure. There ’s 


“THE PRINCESS EGERIA” 109 

a turn in the market when they shut their eyes and drop 
to the handiest : and London ’s a vortex that poor dear dull 
old Dublin can’t compete with. I ’ll beg you for the ad- 
dress of the lady her friend, Lady Dunstane.” 

Mr. Sullivan Smith walked with Kedworth through the 
park to the House of Commons, discoursing of Rails and 
his excellent old friend’s rise to the top rung of the ladder 
and Beanstalk land, so elevated that one had to look up at 
him with watery eyes, as if one had flung a ball at the 
meridian sun. Arrived at famed St. Stephen’s, he sent in 
his compliments to the noble patriot and accepted an 
invitation to dinner. 

“And mind you read The Princess Egeria,” said 
Kedworth. 

“Again and again, my friend. The book is bought.” 
Sullivan Smith slapped his breastpocket. 

“There ’s a bit of Erin in it.” 

“ It sprouts from Erin.” 

“Trumpet it.” 

“ Loud as cavalry to the charge ! ” 

Once with the title stamped on his memory, the zealous 
Irishman might be trusted to become an ambulant adver- 
tizer. Others, personal friends, adherents, courtiers of Red- 
worth’s, were active. Lady Pennon and Henry Wilmers, 
in the upper circle; Whitmonby and Westlake, in the 
literary, — spread the fever for this new book. The chief 
interpreter of public- opinion caught the way of the wind 
and headed the gale. 

Editions of the book did really run like fires in summer 
furze; and to such an extent that a simple literary Per- 
formance grew to be respected in Great Britain* as repre 
genting Money. 


170 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


CHAPTER XVIII 

THE AUTHORESS 

The effect of a great success upon Diana, at her second 
literary venture, was shown in the transparent sedateness 
of a letter she wrote to Emma Dunstane, as much as in her 
immediate and complacent acceptance of the magical change 
of her fortunes. She spoke one thing and acted another, 
but did both with a lofty calm that deceived the admiring 
friend who clearly saw the authoress behind her mask, and 
feared lest she should be too confidently trusting to the 
powers of her pen to support an establishment. 

“ If the public were a perfect instrument to strike on, I 
should be tempted to take the wonderful success of my 
Princess at her first appearance for a proof of natural 
aptitude in composition, and might think myself the genius. 
I know it to be as little a Stradivarius as I am a Paganini. 
It is an eccentric machine, in tune with me for the moment, 
because I happen to have hit it in the ringing spot. The book 
is a new face appealing to a mirror of the common surface 
emotions ; and the kitchen rather than the dairy offers an 
analogy for the real value of that ‘top-skim.’ I have not 
seen what I consider good in the book once mentioned 
among the laudatory notices — except by your dear hand, my 
Emmy. Be sure 1 will stand on guard against the ‘ vapor- 
ous generalizations,’ and other ‘ tricks ’ you fear. Now 
that you are studying Latin for an occupation — how good 
and wise it was of Mr. Redworth to propose it ! — I look 
upon you with awe as a classic authority and critic. I 
wish I had leisure to study with you. What I do is nothing 
like so solid and durable. 

" The Princess Egeria originally (I must have written 
word of it to you — I remember the evening off Palermo !) 
was conceived as a sketch ; by gradations she grew into a 
sort of semi-Scudery romance, and swelled to her present 
portliness. That was done by a great deal of piecing, not to 
say puffing, of her frame. She would be healthier and 
have a chance of living longer if she were reduced by a 


THE AUTHORESS 


171 


reversal of the processes. But how would the judicious 
clippings and prickings affect our ‘ pensive public ’ ? Now 
that I have fifrnished a house and have a fixed address, 
under the paws of creditors, I feel I am in the wizard- 
circle of my popularity and subscribe to its laws or waken 
to incubus and the desert. Have I been rash? You do 
not pronounce. If I have bound myself to pipe as others 
please, it need not be entirely ; and I can promise you it 
shall- not be ; but still I am sensible when I lift my ‘ little 
quill ’ of having forced the note of a woodland wren into 
the popular nightingale’s — which may end in the daw’s, 
from straining ; or worse, a toy-whistle. 

“That is, in the field of literature. Otherwise, within 
me deep, I am not aware of any transmutation of the celes- 
tial into coined gold. I sound myself, and ring clear. In- 
cessant writing is my refuge, my solace — escape out of the 
personal net. I delight in it, as in my early morning walks 
at Lugano, when I went threading the streets and by the 
lake away to ‘ the heavenly mount/ like a dim idea worming 
upward in a sleepy head to bright wakefulness. 

“ My anonymous critic, of whom I told you, is intoxi- 
cating with eulogy. The signature ‘Apollonius’ appears 
to be of literary-middle indication. He marks passages ap- 
proved by you. I have also had a complimentary letter 
from Mr. Dacier. 

“For an instance of this delight I have in writing, so 
strong is it that I can read pages I have written, and tear 
the stuff to strips (I did yesterday), and resume, as if 
nothing had happened. The waves within are ready for any 
displacement. That must be a good sign. I do not doubt 
of excelling my Princess ; and if she received compli- 
ments, the next may hope for more. Consider, too, the 
novel pleasure of earning money by the labour we delight 
in. It is an answer to your question whether I am happy. 
Yes, as the savage islander before the ship entered the 
bay with the fire-water. My blood is wine, and I have the 
slumbers of an infant. I dream, wake, forget my dream, 
barely dress before the pen is galloping ; barely breakfast ; 
no toilette till noon. A savage in good sooth! You see, my 
Emmy, I could not house with the ‘companionable person’ 
you hint at. The poles can never come together till the 


172 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

earth is crushed. She would find ray habits intolerable, 
and I hers contemptible, though we might both be corapan- 
ionable persons. My dear, I could not even live with my- 
self. My blessed little quill, which helps me divinely to 
live out of myself, is and must continue to be my one com- 
panion. It is my mountain height, morning light, wings, 
cup from the springs, my horse, my goal, my lancet and 
replenisher, my key of communication with the highest, 
grandest, holiest between earth and heaven — the vital air 
connecting them. 

“In justice let me add that I have not been troubled by 
hearing of any of the mysterious legal claims, et caetera. 
I am sorry to hear bad reports of health. I wish him en- 
tire felicity — no step taken to bridge division ! The 
thought of it makes me tigrish. 

“ A new pianist playing his own pieces (at Lady Sin- 
gleby’s concert) has given me exquisite pleasure and set 
me composing songs — not to his music, which could be 
rendered only by sylphs moving to ‘ soft recorders ’ in the 
humour of wildness, languor, bewitching caprices, giving 
a new sense to melody. How I wish you had been with 
me to hear him ! It was the most ^Eolian thing ever 
caught from a night-breeze by the soul of a poet. 

“ But do not suppose me having headlong tendencies to 
the melting mood. (The above, by the way, is a Pole set- 
tled in Paris, and he is to be introduced to m£ at Lady 
Pennon’s.) — What do you say to my being invited by Mr. 
Whitmonby to aid him in writing leading articles for the 
paper he is going to conduct ! ‘ write as you talk and it will 
do/ he says. I am choosing my themes. To write — of 
politics — as I talk, seems to me like an effort to jump 
away from my shadow. The black dog of consciousness 
declines to be shaken off. If some one commanded me to 
talk as I write / I suspect it would be a way of winding 
me up to a sharp critical pitch rapidly. 

“Not good news of Lord D. I have had messages. Mr. 
X>acier conceals his alarm. The Princess gave great grati- 
fication. She did me her best service there. Is it not cruel 
that the interdict of the censor should force me to depend 
for information upon such scraps as I get from a gentleman 
passing my habitation on his way to the House ? And he 


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m 


is not, he never has been, sympathetic in that direction. He 
sees my grief, and assumes an undertakerly air, with some 
notion of acting in concert, one supposes — little imagining 
how I revolt from that crape-hatband formalism of sorrow ! 

“ One word of her we call our inner I. I am not drawing 
upon her resources for my daily needs ; not wasting her at 
all, I trust; certainly not walling her up, to deafen her 
voice. It would be to fall away from you. She bids me 
sign myself, my beloved, ever, ever your Tony.” 

The letter had every outward show of sincereness in ex- 
pression, and was endowed to wear that appearance by the 
writer’s impulse to protest with so resolute a vigour as to 
delude herself. Lady Dunstane heard of Mr. Dacter’s 
novel attendance at concerts. The world made a note of 
it ; for the gentleman was notoriously without ear for 
music. 

Diana’s comparison of her hours of incessant writing to 
her walks under the dawn at Lugano, her boast of the simi- 
larity of her delight in both, deluded her uncorrupted con- 
science to believe that she was now spiritually as free as in 
that fair season of the new spring in her veins. She was 
not an investigating physician, nor was Lady Dunstane, 
otherwise they would have examined the material points 
of her conduct — indicators of the spiritual secret always. 
What are the patient’s acts ? The patient’s mind was pro- 
jected too far beyond them to see the forefinger they 
stretched at her; and the friend’s was not that of a prying 
doctor on the look out for betraying symptoms. Lady Dun- 
stane did ask herself why Tony should have incurred the 
burden of a costly household — a very costly: Sir Lukin 
had been at one of Tony’s little dinners : — but her wish to 
meet the world on equal terms, after a long dependency, 
accounted for it in seeming to excuse. The guests on the 
occasion were Lady Pennon, Lady Singleby, Mr. Whit- 
monby, Mr. Percy Dacier, Mr. Tonans ; — “ Some other 
woman,” Sir Lukin said, and himself. He reported the 
cookery as matching the conversation, and that was 
princely ; the wines not less : an extraordinary fact to note 
of a woman. But to hear Whitmonby and Diana Warwick ! 
How he told a story, neat as a postman’s knock, and she 
tipped it with a remark and ran to a second, drawing in 


i74 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Lady Pennon, and then Dacier, “ and me ! ” cried Sir 
Lukin; “she made us all toss the ball from hand to hand, 
and all talk up to the mark ; and none of us noticed that we 
ail went together to the drawing-room, where we talked for 
another hour, and broke up fresher than we began.” 

“ That break between the men and the women after din- 
ufi r was Tony’s aversion, and I am glad she has instituted 
.a change,” said Lady Dunstane. 

She heard also from Kedworth of the unexampled con- 
cert of the guests at Mrs. Warwick’s dinner parties. He 
bad met on one occasion the Esquarts, the Pettigrews, Mr. 
Percy Dacier, and a Miss Paynham. Kedworth had not 
a word to say of the expensive household. Whatever 
Mrs. Warwick did was evidently good to him. On another 
evening the party was composed of Lady Pennon, Lord 
Larrian, Miss Paynham, a clever Mrs. Wollasley, Mr. Henry 
Wilmers, and again Mr. Percy Dacier. 

When Diana came to Copsley, Lady Dunstane remarked 
on the recurrence of the name of Miss Paynham in the list 
of her guests. 

“And Mr. Percy Dacier’s too,” said Diana, smiling. 
“They are invited each for specific reasons. It pleases 
Lord Dannisburgh to hear that a way has been found to en- 
liven his nephew; and my little dinners are effective, I 
think. He wakes. Yesterday evening he capped flying 
jests with Mr. Sullivan Smith. But you speak of Miss 
Paynham.” Diana lowered her voice on half a dozen sylla- 
bles, till the half-tones dropped into her steady look. “ You 
approve, Emmy ? ” 

The answer was : “ I do — true or not.” 

“Between us two, dear, I fear! ... In either case, she 
has been badly used. Society is big engine enough to pro- 
tect itself. I incline with British juries to do rough justice 
to the victims. She has neither father nor brother. I have 
had no confidences : but it wears the look of a cowardly busi- 
ness. With two words in his ear, I could arm an Irishman 
to do some work of chastisement : — he would select the 
rascal’s necktie for a cause of quarrel : and lords have to 
stand their ground as well as commoners. They measure 
the same number of feet when stretched their length. 
However, vengeance with the heavens ! though they seem 


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175 


tardy. Lady Pennon has been very kind about it; and the 
Esquarts invite her to Lockton. Shoulder to shoulder, the 
tide may be stemmed.” 

u She would have gone under, but for you, dear Tony ! ” 
said Emma, folding arms round her darling’s neck and 
kissing her. “ Bring her here some day.” 

Diana did not promise it. She had her vision of Sir 
Lukin in his fit of lunacy. 

“ I am too weak for London now,” Emma resumed. “ I 
should like to be useful. Is she pleasant ? ” 

“ Sprightly by nature. She has worn herself with 
fretting.” 

“ Then bring her to stay with me, if I cannot keep you. 
She will talk of you to me.” 

“I will bring her for a couple of days,” Diana said. “I 
am too busy to remain longer. She paints portraits to 
amuse herself. She ought to be pushed, wherever she is 
received about London, while the season is warm. One 
season will suffice to establish her. She is pretty, near 
upon six and twenty : foolish, of course : she pays for 
having had a romantic head. Heavy payment, Emmy ! I 
drive at laws, but hers is an instance of the creatures 
wanting simple human kindness.” 

“ The good law will come with a better civilization; but 
before society can be civilized it has to be debarbarized,” 
Emma remarked, and Diana sighed over the task and the 
truism. 

“ I should have said in younger days, because it will not 
look plainly on our nature and try to reconcile it with our 
conditions. But now I see that the sin is cowardice. The 
more I know of the world the more clearly I perceive that 
its top and bottom sin is cowardice, physically and morally 
alike. Lord Larrian owns to there being few heroes in an 
army. We must fawn in society. What is the meaning 
of that dread of one example of tolerance ? 0 my dear ! 

let us give it the right name. Society is the best thing we 
have, but it is a crazy vessel worked by a crew that formerly 
practised piracy, and now, in expiation, professes piety, 
fearful of a discovered Omnipotence, which is in the image 
of themselves and captain. Their old habits are not quite 
abandoned, and their new one is used as a lash to whip the 


176 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


exposed of us for a propitiation of the capricious potentate 
whom they worship in the place of the true God.” 

Lady Dunstane sniffed. “ I smell the leading article.” 

Diana joined with her smile, “ No, the style is rather 
different.” 

“Have you not got into a trick of composing in speaking, 
at times ? ” 

Diana confessed, “ I think I have at times. Perhaps the 
daily writing of all kinds and the nightly talking ... I 
may be getting strained.” 

“No, Tony; but longer visits in the country to me would 
refresh you. I miss your lighter touches. London is a 
school, but, you know it, not a school for comedy nor for 
philosophy ; that is gathered on my hills, with London 
distantly in view, and then occasional descents on it well 
digested.” 

“I wonder whether it is affecting me!” said Diana, 
musing. “A metropolitan hack! and while thinking my- 
self free, thrice harnessed ; and all my fun gone. Am I 
really as dull as a tract, my dear ? I must be,- or I should 
be proving the contrary instead of asking. My pitfall is 
to fancy I have powers equal to the first look-out of the 
eyes of the morning. Enough of me. We talked of Mary 
Paynham. If only some right good man would marry 
her ! ” 

Lady Dunstane guessed at the right good man in Diana’s 
mind. “ Do you bring them together ? ” 

Diana nodded, and then shook doleful negatives to signify 
no hope. 

“None whatever — if we mean the same person,” said 
Lady Dunstane, bethinking her, in the spirt of wrath she 
felt at such a scheme being planned by Diana to snare the 
right good man, that instead of her own true lover Red- 
worth, it might be only Percy Dacier. So filmy of mere 
sensations are these little ideas as they flit in converse, that 
she did not reflect on her friend’s ignorance of Red worth’s 
love of her, or on the unlikely choice of one in Dacier’s 
high station to reinstate a damsel. 

They did not name the person. 

“Passing the instance, which is cruel, I will be just to 
society thus far,” said Diana. “ I was in a boat at Rich- 


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17 ? 


tnond last week, and Leander was revelling along the 
mud-banks, and took it into his head to swim out to me, 
and I was moved to take him on board. The ladies in the 
boat objected, for he was not only wet but very muddy. I 
was forced to own that their objections were reasonable. 
My sentimental humaneness had no argument against 
muslin dresses, though my dear dog’s eyes appealed 
pathetically, and he would keep swimming after us. The 
analogy excuses the world for protecting itself in extreme 
cases ; nothing, nothing excuses its insensibility to cases 
which may be pleaded. You see the pirate crew turned 
pious — ferocious in sanctity.” She added, half laughing : 
“ I am reminded by the boat, I have unveiled my anonymous 
critic, and had a woeful disappointment. He wrote like a 
veteran ; he is not much more than a boy. I received a 
volume of verse, and a few lines begging my acceptance. ] 
fancied I knew the writing, and wrote asking him whether 
I had not to thank him, and inviting him to call. He seems 
a nice lad of about two and twenty, mad for literature ; and 
he must have talent. Arthur Rhodes by name. I may 
have a chance of helping him. He was an articled clerk 
of Mr. Braddock’s, the same who valiantly came to my 
rescue once. He was with us in the boat.” 

“ Bring him to me some day,” said Lady Dunstane. 

Miss Paynham’s visit to Copsley was arranged, and it 
turned out a failure. The poor young lady came in a 
flutter, thinking that the friend of Mrs. Warwick would 
expect her to discourse cleverly. She attempted it, to 
Diana’s amazement. Lady Dunstane’s opposingly corre- 
sponding stillness provoked Miss Paynham to expatiate, 
for she had sprightliness and some mental reserves of the 
common order. Clearly, Lady Dunstane mused while 
listening amiably, Tony never could have designed this 
gabbler for the mate of Thomas Red worth ! 

Percy Dacier seemed to her the more likely one, in that 
light, and she thought so still, after Sir Lukin had intro- 
duced him at Copsley for a couple of days of the hunting 
season. Tony’s manner with him suggested it ; she had a 
dash of leadership. They were not intimate in look or 
tongue. 

But Percy Dacier also was too good for Miss Paynliam k 


178 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


if that was Tony’s plan for him, Lady Dunstane thought, 
with the relentlessness of an invalid and recluse’s distaste. 
An aspect of penitence she had not demanded, but the silly 
gabbler under a stigma she could not pardon. 

Her opinion of Miss Paynham was diffused in her 
silence. 

Speaking of Mr. Dacier, she remarked, “ As you say of 
him, Tony, he can brighten, and when you give him a 
chance he is entertaining. He has fine gifts. If I were a 
member of his family I should beat about for a match for 
him. He strikes me as one of the young men who would 
do better married.” 

“ He is doing very well, but the wonder is that he does n’t 
marry,” said Diana. “He ought to be engaged. Lady 
Esquart told me that he was. A Miss Asper — great 
heiress; and the Daciers want money. However, there 
it is.” 

Not many weeks later Diana could not have spoken of 
Mr. Percy Dacier with this air of indifference without 
corruption of her inward guide. 


CHAPTER XIX 

A DRIVE IN SUNLIGHT AND A DRIVE IN MOONLIGHT 

The fatal time to come for her was in the Summer of that 
year. 

Emma had written her a letter of unwonted bright 
spirits, contrasting strangely with an inexplicable oppres- 
sion of her own that led her to imagine her recent placid 
life the pause before thunder, and to share the mood of her 
solitary friend she flew to Copsley, finding Sir Lukin 
absent, as usual. They drove out immediately after break- 
fast, on one of those high mornings of the bared bosom of 
June when distances are given to our eyes, and a soft air 
fondles leaf and grassblade, and beauty and peace are over- 
head, reflected, if we will. Rain had fallen in the night. 
Here and there hung a milkwhite cloud with folded sail. 


SUNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT DRIVES 179 

The South-west left it in its bay of blue, and breathed 
below. At moments the fresh scent of herb and mould 
swung richly in warmth. The young beech-leaves glittered, 
pools of rain-water made the roadways laugh, the grass- 
banks under hedges rolled their interwoven weeds in 
cascades of many-shaded green to right and left of the pair 
of dappled ponies, and a squirrel crossed ahead, a lark went 
up a little way to ease his heart, closing his wings when 
the burst was over, startled black-birds, darting with a 
clamour like a broken cockcrow, looped the wayside woods 
from hazel to oak-scrub ; short flights, quick spirts every-, 
where, steady sunshine above. 

Diana held the reins. The whip was an ornament, as 
the plume of feathers to the general officer. Lady Dun- 
stane’s ponies were a present from Kedworth, who always 
chose the pick of the land for his gifts. They joyed in 
their trot, and were the very love-birds of the breed for 
their pleasure of going together, so like that Diana called 
them the Dromios. Through an old gravel-cutting a gate- 
way led to the turf of the down, springy turf bordered on a 
long line, clear as a racecourse, by golden gorse covers, and 
leftward over the gorse the dark ridge of the fir and heath 
country ran companionably to the South-west, the valley 
between, with undulations of wood and meadow sunned or 
shaded, clumps, mounds, promontories, away to broad 
spaces of tillage banked by wooded hills, and dimmer be- 
yond and farther, the faintest shadowiness of heights, as a 
veil to the illimitable. Yews, junipers, radiant beeches, 
and gleams of the service-tree or the white-beam spotted 
the semicircle of swelling green Down black and silver. 
The sun in the valley sharpened his beams on squares of 
buttercups, and made a pond a diamond. 

“ You see, Tony,” Emma said, for a comment on the 
scene, “ I could envy Italy for having you, more than you 
for being in Italy.” 

“ Feature and colour ! ” said Diana. “ You have them 
here, and on a scale that one can embrace. I should like 
to build a hut on this point, and wait for such a day to 
return. It brings me to life.” She lifted her eyelids on 
her friend’s worn sweet face, and knowing her this friend 
up to death, past it in her hopes, she said bravely, “ It is 


180 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


the Emma of days and scenes to me ! It helps me to for. 
get myself, as I do when I think of you, dearest ; but the 
subject has latterly been haunting me, I don’t know why, 
and ominously, as if my nature were about to horrify my 
soul. But I am not sentimentalizing, you are really this 
day and scene in my heart.” 

Emma smiled confidingly. She spoke her reflection : 
“ The heart must be troubled a little to have the thought. 
The flower I gather here tells me that we may be happy in 
privation and suffering if simply we can accept beauty. I 
won’t say expel the passions, but keep passion sober, a 
trotter in harness.” 

Diana caressed the ponies’ heads with the droop of her 
whip : “ I don’t think I know him ! ” she said. 

Between sincerity and a suspicion so cloaked and dull 
that she did not feel it to be the opposite of candour, she 
fancied she was passionless because she could accept the 
visible beauty, which was Emma’s prescription and test ; 
and she forced herself to make much of it, cling to it, 
devour it ; with envy of Emma’s contemplative happiness, 
through whose grave mind she tried to get to the peace in 
it, imagining that she succeeded. The cloaked and dull 
suspicion weighed within her nevertheless. She took it for 
a mania to speculate on herself. There are states of the 
crimson blood when the keenest wits are childish, notably 
in great-hearted women aiming at the majesty of their sex 
and fearful of confounding it by the look direct and the 
downright word. Yet her nature compelled her inwardly 
to phrase the sentence : “Emma is a wife ! ” The character 
of her husband was not considered, nor was the meaning of 
the exclamation pursued. 

They drove through the gorse into wild land of heath 
and flowering hawthorn, and along by tracts of yew and 
juniper to another point, jutting on a furzy sand-mound, 
rich with the mild splendour of English scenery, which 
Emma stamped on her friend’s mind by saying : “ A cripple 
has little to envy in you who can fly when she has feasts 
like these at her doors.” 

They had an inclination to boast on the drive home of 
the solitude they had enjoyed ; and just then, as the head 
in the wood wound under great beeches, they beheld a 


SUNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT DRIVES 


181 


London hat. The hat was plucked from its head. A clear- 
faced youth, rather flushed, dusty at the legs, addressed 
Diana. 

“ Mr. Rhodes ! ” she said, not discouragingly. 

She was petitioned to excuse him ; he thought she would 
wish to hear the news in town last night as early as pos- 
sible ; he hesitated and murmured it. 

Diana turned to Emma : “ Lord Dannisburgh ! ” — her 
paleness told the rest. 

Hearing from Mr. Rhodes that he had walked the dis- 
tance from town, and had been to Copsley, Lady Dunstane 
invited him to follow the pony-carriage thither, where he 
was fed and refreshed by a tea-breakfast, as he preferred 
walking on tea, he said. “ I took the liberty to call at Mrs. 
Warwick’s house,” he informed her ; “ the footman said 
she was at Copsley. I found it on the map — I knew 
the direction — and started about two in the morning. I 
wanted a walk.” 

It was evident to her that he was one of the young 
squires bewitched whom beautiful women are constantly 
enlisting. There was no concealment of it, though he 
Stirred a sad enviousness in the invalid lady by descanting 
on the raptures of a walk out of London in the youngest 
light of day, and on the common objects he had noticed 
along the roadside, and through the woods, more sustain- 
ing, closer with nature than her compulsory feeding on the 
cream of things. 

“ You are not fatigued?” she inquired, hoping for that 
confession at least ; but she pardoned his boyish vaunting 
to walk the distance back without any fatigue at all. 

He had a sweeter reward for his pains ; and if the busi- 
ness of the chronicler allowed him to become attached to 
pure throbbing felicity wherever it is encountered, he might 
be diverted by the blissful unexpectedness of good fortune 
befalling Mr. Arthur Rhodes in having the honour to con- 
duct Mrs. Warwick to town. No imagined happiness, even 
in the heart of a young man of two and twenty, could have 
matched it. He was by her side, hearing and seeing her, 
not less than four hours. To add to his happiness, Lady 
Dunstane said she would be glad to welcome him again. 
She thought him a pleasant specimen of the self-vowed squire, 


182 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Diana was sure that there would be a communication for 
her of some sort at her house in London ; perhaps a mes- 
sage of farewell from the dying lord, now dead. Mr. 
Rhodes had only the news of the evening journals, to the 
effect that Lord Dannisburgh had expired at his residence, 
the Priory, Hallowmere, in Hampshire. A message of fare- 
well from him, she hoped for : knowing him as she did, it 
seemed a certainty ; and she hungered for that last gleam 
of life in her friend. She had no anticipation of the burden 
of the message awaiting her. 

A consultation as to the despatching of the message, had 
taken place among the members of Lord Dannisburgh’s 
family present at his death. Percy Dacier was one of them, 
and he settled the disputed point, after some time had been 
spent in persuading his father to take the plain view of 
obligation in the matter, and in opposing the dowager 
countess, his grandmother, by stating that he had already 
sent a special messenger to London. Lord Dannisburgh on 
his death-bed had expressed a wish that Mrs. Warwick 
would sit with him for an hour one night before the nails 
were knocked in his coffin. He spoke of it twice, putting 
it the second time to Percy as a formal request to be made 
to her, and Percy had promised him that Mrs. Warwick 
should have the message. He had done his best to keep 
his pledge, aware of the disrelish of the whole family for 
the lady’s name, to say nothing of her presence. 

“ She won’t come,” said the earl. 

“ She ’ll come,” said old Lady Dacier. 

“ If the woman respects herself she ’ll hold off it,” the 
earl insisted because of his desire that way. -He signified 
in mutterings that the thing was improper and absurd, a 
piece of sentiment, sickly senility, unlike Lord Dannisburgh. 
Also that Percy had been guilty of excessive folly. 

To which Lady Dacier nodded her assent, remarking: 
“ The woman is on her mettle. From what I ’ve heard of 
her, she ’s not a woman to stick at trifles. She ’ll take it as 
a sort of ordeal by touch, and she ’ll come.” 

They joined in abusing Percy, who had driven away to 
another part of the country. Lord Creedmore, the heir of 
the house, was absent, hunting in America, or he might 
temporarily have been taken into favour by contrast. 


SUNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT DKIVES 


183 


Ultimately they agreed that the woman must be allowed to 
enter the house, but could not be received. The earl was a 
widower; his mother managed the family, and being hard 
to convince, she customarily carried her point, save when it 
involved Percy’s freedom of action. She was one of the 
veterans of her sex that age to toughness ; and the “ hyster- 
ical fuss ” she apprehended in the visit of this woman to 
Lord Dannisburgh’s death-bed and body, did not alarm her. 
For the sake of the household she determined to remain, 
shut up in her room. Before night the house was empty of 
any members of the family excepting old Lady Dacier and 
the outstretched figure on the bed. 

Dacier fled to escape the hearing of the numberless 
ejaculations re-awakened in the family by his uncle’s extra- 
ordinary dy\ng request. They were an outrage to the lady, 
of whom he could now speak as a privileged champion ; and 
the request itself had an air of proving her stainless, a white 
soul and efficacious advocate at the celestial gates (reading 
the mind of the dying man). So he thought at one moment : 
he had thought so when charged with the message to her ; 
had even thought it a natural wish that she should look once 
on the face she would see no more, and say farewell to it, 
considering that in life it could not be requested. But the 
susceptibility to sentimental emotion beside a death-bed, 
with a dying man’s voice in the ear, requires fortification 
if it is to be maintained ; and the review of his uncle’s 
character did not tend to make this very singular request 
a proof that the lady’s innocence was honoured in it. His 
epicurean uncle had no profound esteem for the kind of 
innocence. He had always talked of Mrs. Warwick with 
warm respect for her : Dacier knew that he had bequeathed 
her a sum of money. The inferences were either way. 
Lord Dannisburgh never spoke evilly of any woman, and he 
was perhaps bound to indemnify her materially as well as 
he could for what she had suffered. — On the other hand, 
how easy it was to be the dupe of a woman so handsome and 
clever. — Unlikely too that his uncle would consent to sit 
at the Platonic banquet with her. — Judging by himself, 
Dacier deemed it possible for man. He was not quick to 
kindle, and had lately seen much of her, had found her a 
Lady Egeria, helpful in counsel, prompting, inspiriting. 


184 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAAS 


reviving as well-waters, and as temperately cool: not on a 
sign of native slipperiness. Nor did she stir the mud in 
him upon which proud man is built. The shadow of the 
scandal had checked a few shifty sensations rising now and 
then of their own accord, and had laid them, with the lady’s 
benign connivance. This was good proof in her favour, 
seeing that she must have perceived of late the besetting 
thirst he had for her company ; and alone or in the medley 
equally. To see her, hear, exchange ideas with her ; and to 
talk of new books, try to listen to music at the opera and at 
concerts, and admire her playing of hostess, were novel 
pleasures, giving him fresh notions of life, and strengthen* 
ing rather than disturbing the course of his life’s business. 

At any rate, she was capable of friendship. Why not 
resolutely believe that she had been his uncle’s true and 
simple friend! He adopted the resolution, thanking her 
for one recognized fact : — he hated marriage, and would by 
this time have been in the yoke, but for the agreeable 
deviation of his path to her society. Since his visit to 
Copsley, moreover, Lady Dunstane’s idolizing of her friend 
had influenced him. Reflecting on it, he recovered from 
the shock which his uncle’s request had caused. 

Certain positive calculations were running side by side 
with the speculations in vapour. His messenger would 
reach her house at about four of the afternoon. If then at 
home, would she decide to start immediately ? — Would she 
come ? That was a question he did not delay to answer. 
Would she defer the visit ? Death replied to that. She 
would not delay it. 

She would be sure' to come at once. And what of the 
welcome she would meet ? Leaving the station in London 
at six in the evening, she might arrive at the. Priory, all 
impediments counted, between ten and eleven at night. 
Thence, coldly greeted, or not greeted, to the chamber of 
death. 

A pitiable and cruel reception for a woman upon such a 
mission ! 

His mingled calculations and meditations reached that 
exclamatory terminus in feeling, and settled on the picture 
of Diana, about as clear as light to blinking eyes, but enough 
for him to realize her being there and alone, woefully alone. 


SUNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT DRIVES 


185 


The supposition of an absolute loneliness was most possible. 
He had intended to drive back the next day, when the do- 
mestic storm would be over, and take the chances of her 
coming. It seemed now a piece of duty to return at night, 
a traverse of twenty rough up and down miles from Itchen- 
ford to the heathland rolling on the chalk wave of the 
Surrey borders, easily done after the remonstrances of his 
host were stopped. 

Dacier sat in an open carriage, facing a slip of bright moon. 
Poetical impressions, emotions, any stirrings of his mind by 
the sensational stamp on it, were new to him, and while he 
swam in them, both lulled and pricked by his novel accessi- 
bility to nature’s lyrical touch, he asked himself whether, if 
he were near the throes of death, the thought of having 
Diana Warwick to sit beside his vacant semblance for an 
hour at night would be comforting. And why had his uncle 
specified an hour of the night ? It was a sentiment, like the 
request: curious in a man so little sentimental. Yonder 
crescent running the shadowy round of the hoop roused 
comparisons. Would one really wish to have her beside one 
in death ? In life — ah ! But suppose her denied to us in 
life. Then the desire for her companionship appears pass- 
ingly comprehensible. Enter into the sentiment, you see 
that the hour of darkness is naturally chosen. And would 
even a grand old Pagan crave the presence beside his dead 
body for an hour of the night of a woman he did not esteem ? 
Dacier answered no. The negative was not echoed in his 
mind. He repeated it, and to the same deadness. 

He became aware that he had spoken for himself, and he 
had a fit of sourness. For who can sa}" he is not a fool before 
he has been tried by a woman ! Dacier’s wretched tendency 
under vexation to conceive grotesque analogies, anti-poetic, 
not to say cockney similes, which had slightly chilled Diana 
at Bovio, set him looking at yonder crescent with the hoop, 
as at the shape of a white cat climbing a wheel. Men of the 
northern blood will sometimes lend their assent to poetical 
images, even to those that do not stun the mind like blud- 
geons and imperatively, by much repetition, command theit 
assent ; and it is for a solid exchange and interest in usury 
with soft poetical creatures when they are so condescending ; 
but they are seized by the grotesque. In spite of efforts to 


186 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


efface or supplant it, he saw the white cat, nothing else, even 
to thinking that she had jumped cleverly to catch the wheel. 
He was a true descendant of practical hard-grained fighting 
"Northerners, of gnarled dwarf imaginations, chivalrous 
though they were, and heroes to have serviceable and valiant 
gentlemen for issue. Without at all tracing back to its origin 
his detestable image of the white cat on the dead circle, he 
kicked at the links between his uncle and Diana Warwick, 
whatever the} 7 " had been ; particularly at the present revival 
of them. Old Lady Dacier’s blunt speech,, and his father’s 
fixed opinion, hissed in his head. 

They were ignorant of his autumnal visit to the Italian 
Lakes, after the winter’s Nile-boat expedition ; and also of 
the degree of his recent intimacy with Mrs. Warwick; or 
else, as he knew, he would have heard more hissing things. 
Her patronage of Miss Paynham exposed her to attacks 
where she was deemed vulnerable ; Lady Dacier muttered 
old saws as to the flocking of birds; he did not accurately 
understand it, thought it indiscreet, at best. But in re- 
gard to his experience, he could tell himself that a Woman 
more guileless of luring never drew breath. On the con- 
trary, candour said it had always been he who had schemed 
and pressed for the meeting. He was at liberty to do it, not 
being bound in honour elsewhere. Besides, despite his 
acknowledgment of her beauty, Mrs. Warwick was not quite 
his ideal of the perfectly beautiful woman. Constance 
Asper came nearer to it. He had the English taste for red 
and white, and for cold outlines : he secretly admired a 
statuesque demeanour with a statue’s eyes. The national 
approbation of a reserved haughtiness in woman, a tempered 
disdain in her slightly lifted small upperlip and drooped eye- 
lids, was shared by him ; and Constance Asper, if not exactly 
aristocratic by birth, stood well for that aristocratic insular 
type, which seems to promise the husband of it a casket of 
all the trusty virtues, as well as the security of frigidity in 
the casket. Such was Dacier’s native taste ; consequently 
the attractions of Diana Warwick for him were, he thought, 
chiefly mental, those of a Lady Egeria. She might or might 
not be good, in the vulgar sense. She was an agreeable 
woman, an amusing companion, very suggestive, inciting, 
animating ; and her past history must be left as her own. 


DIANA S NIGHT-WATCH 


187 


Did it matter to him ? What he saw was bright, a silver 
crescent on the side of the shadowy ring. Were it a 
question of marrying her ! — That was out of the possibili- 
ties. He remembered, moreover, having heard from a man, 
who professed to know, that Mrs. Warwick had started in 
married life by treating her husband cavalierly to an intoler- 
able degree ; “ Such as no Englishman could stand,” the 
portly old informant thundered, describing it and her in racy 
vernacular. She might be a devil of a wife. She was a 
pleasant friend; just the soft bit sweeter than male friends 
which gave the flavour of sex without the artful seductions. 
He required them strong to move him. 

He looked at last on the green walls of the Priory, 
scarcely supposing a fair watcher to be within ; for the con- 
trasting pale colours of dawn had ceased to quicken the 
brilliancy of the crescent, and summer daylight drowned 
it to fainter than a silver coin in water. It lay dispieced 
like a pulled rag. Eastward, over Surrey, stood the full 
rose of morning. The Priory clock struck four.. When 
the summons of the bell had gained him admittance, and 
he heard that Mrs. Warwick had come in the night, he 
looked back through the doorway at the rosy colour, and 
congratulated himself to think that her hour of watching 
was at an end. A sleepy footman was his informant. 
Women were in my lord’s dressing-room, he said. Up- 
stairs, at the death-chamber, Dacier paused. No sound 
came to him. He hurried to his own room, paced about, 
and returned. Expecting to see no one but the dead, he 
turned the handle, and the two circles of a shaded lamp, on 
ceiling and on table, met his gaze. 


CHAPTER XX 

Diana’s night-watch in the chamber of death 

He stepped into the room, and thrilled to hear the quiet 
voice beside the bed : “ Who is it ? ” 

Apologies and excuses were on his tongue. The vibration 
of those grave tones checked them. 


188 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ It is you/' she said. 

She sat in shadow, her hands joined on her lap. An 
unopened book was under the lamp. 

He spoke in an underbreath : “I have just come. I was 
not sure I should find you here. Pardon.” 

“There is a chair.” 

He murmured thanks and entered into the stillness, 
observing her. 

“ You have been watching. . . . You must be tired.” 

“No” 

“ An hour was asked, only one.” 

k< I could not leave him.” 

“ Watchers are at hand to relieve you.” 

“ It is better for him to have me.” 

The chord of her voice told him of the gulfs she had 
sunk in during the night. The thought of her endurance 
became a burden. 

He let fall his breath for patience, and tapped the floor 
with his foot. 

He feared to discompose^ her by speaking. The silence 
grew more fearful, as the very speech of Death between 
them. 

“ You came. I thought it right to let you know instantly, 
i. hoped you would come to-morrow.” 

“I could not delay.” 

“ You have been sitting alone here since eleven 1” 

“ I have not found it long.” 

“ You must want some refreshment . . . tea ? ” 

“ I need nothing.” 

“ It can be made ready in a few minutes.” 

“ I could not eat or drink.” 

He tried to brush away the impression of the tomb in the 
heavily-curtained chamber by thinking of the summer-morn 
outside phe spoke of it, the rosy sky, the dewy grass, the pip- 
ing birds. She listened, as one hearing of a quitted sphere. 

Their breathing in common was just heard if either drew 
a deeper breath. At moments his eyes wandered and shut. 
Alternately in his mind Death had vaster meanings and 
doubtfuller; Life cowered under the shadow or outshone 
it. He glanced from her to the figure in the bed. and 
seemed swallowed. 


DIANA’S NIGHT-WATCH 


189 


He said : “ It is time for you to have rest. You know 
your room. I will stay till the servants are up.” 

She replied : “ No, let this night with him be mine.” 

“ I am not intruding ? ” . . . 

“ If you wish to remain ”... 

No traces of weeping were on her face. The lamp-shade 
revealed it colourless, and lustreless her eyes. She was 
robed in black. She held her hands clasped. 

“You have not suffered ?” 

“ Oh, no.” 

She said it without sighing : nor was her speech mournful, 
only brief. • 

“ You have seen death before ? ” 

“ I sat by my father four nights. I was a girl then. I 
cried till I had no more tears.” 

He felt a burning pressure behind his eyeballs. 

“Death is natural,” he said. 

“ It is natural to the aged. When they die honoured . . .” 
She looked where the dead man lay. “ To sit beside the 
young, rut off from their dear opening life ! . . .” A 
little shudder swept over her. “Oh! that!” 

“You were very good to come. We must all thank you 
for fulfilling his wish.” 

“ He knew it would be my wish.” 

Her hands pressed together. 

“ He lies peacefully ! ” 

“I have raised the lamp on him, and wondered each 
time. So changeless he lies. But so like a sleep that will 
wake. We never see peace but in the features of the dead. 
Will you look ? They are beautiful. They have a heavenly 
sweetness.” 

The desire to look was evidently recurrent with her. 
Dacier rose. 

Their eyes fell together on the dead man, as thoughtfully 
as Death allows to the creatures of sensation. 

“And after?” he said in low tones. 

“I trust to my Maker,” she replied. “Do you see a 
shange since he breathed his last ? ” 

“ Not any.” 

“ You were with him ? ” 

“Not in the room. Two minutes later.” 


190 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ Who ? . . .” 

“ My father. His niece, Lady Cathairn.” 

“ If our lives are lengthened we outlive most of those we 
would have to close our eyes. He had a dear sister.” 

“ She died some years back.” 

“ I helped to comfort him for that loss.” 

“ He told me you did.” 

The lamp was replaced on the table. 

“ For a moment, when I withdraw the light from him, I 
feel sadness. As if the light we lend to anything were of 
value to him now ! ” 

She bowed her head deeply. Dacier left her meditation 
undisturbed. The birds on the walls outside were audible, 
tweeting, chirping. 

He went to the window-curtains and tried the shutter- 
bars. It seemed to him that daylight would be cheerfuller 
for her. He had a thirst to behold her standing bathed in 
daylight. 

“ Shall I open them ? ” he asked her. 

“I would rather the lamp,” she said. 

They sat silently until she drew her watch from her 
girdle. “ My train starts at half-past six. It is a walk of 
thirty-five minutes to the station. I did it last night in 
•that time.” 

“ You walked here in the dark alone ? ” 

“ There was no fly to be had. The station-master sent 
one of his porters with me. We had a talk on the road. I 
like those men.” 

Dacier read the hour by the mantelpiece clock. “If 
you must really go by the early train, I will drive you.” 

“No, I will walk ; I prefer it.” 

“ I will order your breakfast at once.” 

He turned on his heel. She stopped him. “No, I have 
no taste for eating or drinking.” 

“ Pray . . .” said he, in visible distress. 

She shook her head. “I could not. I have twenty 
minutes longer. I can find my way to the station ; it is 
almost a straight road out of the park-gates.” 

His heart swelled with anger at the household for the 
treatment she had been subjected to, judging by her resolve 
dot to break bread in the house. 


DIANA’S NIGHT-WATCH 


191 


They resumed their silent sitting. The intervals for a 
word to pass between them were long, and the ticking of 
the time-piece fronting the death-bed ruled the chamber, 
scarcely varied. 

The lamp was raised for the final look, the leave-taking. 

Dacier buried his face, thinking many things — the 
common multitude in insurrection. 

“ A servant should be told to come now,” she said. “ I 
have only to put on my bonnet and I am ready.” 

“ You will take no . . . ? ” 

“Nothing.” 

“It is not too late for a carriage to be ordered.” 

“ No — the walk ! ” 

They separated. 

He roused the two women in the dressing-room, asleep 
with heads against the wall. Thence he sped to his own 
room for hat and overcoat, and a sprinkle of cold water. 
Descending the stairs, he beheld his companion issuing 
from the chamber of death. Her lips were shut, her eye- 
lids nervously tremulous. 

They were soon in the warm sweet open air, and they 
walked without an interchange of a syllable through the 
park into the white hawthorn lane, glad to breathe. Her 
nostrils took long draughts of air, but of the change of 
scene she appeared scarcely sensible. 

At the park-gates, she said : “ There is no necessity for 
your coming. 

His answer was : “ I think of myself. I gain something 
every step I walk with you.” 

“ To-day is Thursday, ” said she. “ The funeral is . . . ? ” 

“ Monday has been fixed. According to his directions, 
he will lie in the churchyard of his village — not in the 
family vault.” 

“ I know,” she said hastily. “ They are privileged who 
follow him and see the coffin lowered. He spoke of this 
quiet little resting-place.” 

“ Yes, it ’s a good end. I do riot wonder at his wish for 
the honour you have done him. I could wish it too. But 
more living than dead — that is a natural wish.” 

“ It is not to be called an honour.” 

“I should feel it so — an honour to me.” 


192 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ It is a friend’s duty. The word is too harsh ; — it was 
his friend’s desire. He did not ask it so much as he sanc- 
tioned it. For to him what has my sitting beside him 
been ! ” 

“ He had the prospective happiness.” 

“ He knew well that my soul would be with him — as it 
was last night. But he knew it would be my poor human 
happiness to see him with my eyes, touch him with my 
hand, before he passed from our sight.” 

Dacier exclaimed : “ How you can love ! ” 

“ Is the village church to be seen ? ” she asked. 

. “ To the right of those elms ; that is the spire. The 
black spot below is a yew. You love with the whole heart 
when you love.” 

“ I iove my friends,” she replied. 

“ You tempt me to envy those who are numbered among 
them.” 

“ They are not many.” 

“ They should be grateful.” 

“ You have some acquaintance with them all.” 

“ And an enemy ? Had you ever one ? Do you know 
of one ? ” 

“ Direct and personal designedly? I think not. We 
give that title to those who are disinclined to us and add 
a dash of darker colour to our errors. Foxes have enemies 
in the dogs ; heroines of melodramas have their persecut- 
ing villains. I suppose that conditions of life exist where 
one meets the original complexities. The bad are in every 
rank. The inveterately malignant I have not found. Cir- 
cumstances may combine to make a whisper as deadly as a 
blow, though not of such evil design. Perhaps if we lived 
at a Court of a magnificent despot we should learn that we 
are less highly civilized than we imagine ourselves ; but 
that is a fire to the passions, and the extreme is not the 
perfect test. Our civilization counts positive gains — un- 
less you take the melodrama for the truer picture of us. 
It is always the most popular with the English. — And 
look, what a month June is ! Yesterday morning I was 
with Lady Dunstane on her heights, and I feel double the 
age. He was fond of this wild country. We think it a 
desert, a blank, whither he has gone, because we will strain 


Diana’s night-watch 


193 


to see in the utter dark, and nothing can come of that but 
the bursting of the eyeballs.” 

Dacier assented : “ There’s no use in peering beyond the 
limits.” 

u No,” said she ; “ the effect is like the explaining of 
things to a dull head — the finishing stroke to the under- 
standing ! Better continue to brood. We get to some 
. unravelment if we are left to our own efforts. I quarrel 
'with no priest of any denomination. That they should 
quarrel among themselves is comprehensible in their wis- 
dom, for each has the specific. But they show us their 
way of solving the great problem, and we ought to thank 
them, though one or the other abominate us. You are 
advised to talk with Lady Dunstane on these themes. She 
is perpetually in the antechamber of death, and her soul 
is perennially sunshine. — See the pretty cottage under the 
laburnum curls ! Who lives there ?” 

“ His gamekeeper, Simon Rofe.” 

“ And what a playground for the children, that bit of com- 
mon by their garden-palings ! and the pond, and the blue 
hills over the furzes. I hope those people will not be 
turned out.” 

Dacier could not tell. He promised to do his best for 
them. 

“ But,” said she, “you are the lord here now.” 

“Not likely to be the tenant. Incomes are wanted to 
support even small estates.” 

“ The reason is good for courting the income.” 

He disliked the remark; and when she said presently: 
“Those windmills make the landscape homely,” he re- 
joined: “They remind one of our wheeling London gamins 
round the cab from the station.” 

“ They remind you,” said she, and smiled at the chance 
discordant trick he had, remembering occasions when it 
had crossed her. 

“ This is homelier than Rovio,” she said ; “ quite as nice 
in its way.” 

“ You do not gather flowers here.” 

“ Because my friend has these at her feet.” 

“May one petition without a rival, then, for a sou 
venir ? ” 

It 


194 


DIANA OF THE CEOSSWAYS 


“ Certainly, if yon care to have a common buttercup.” 

They reached the station, five minutes in advance of the 
train. His coming manoeuvre was early detected, and she 
drew from her pocket the little book he had seen lying un- 
opened on the table, and said: “I shall have two good 
hours for reading.” 

“You will not object? ... I must accompany you to 
town. Permit it, 1 beg. You shall not be worried to 
talk.” 

“ No ; I came alone and return alone.” 

“ Fasting and unprotected ! Are you determined to take 
away the worst impression of us ? Do not refuse me this 
favour.” 

“ As to fasting, I could not eat : and unprotected no 
woman is in England if she is a third-class traveller. That 
is my experience of the class; and I shall return among 
my natural protectors — the most unselfishly chivalrous to 
women in the whole world.” 

He had set his heart on going with her, and he attempted 
eloquence in pleading, but that exposed him to her humour ; 
he was tripped. 

“It is not denied that you belong to the knightly class,” 
she said; “and it is not necessary that you should wear 
armour and plumes to proclaim it; and your appearance 
would be ample protection from the drunken sailors travel- 
ling, you say, on this line ; and I may be deplorably mis- 
taken in imagining that I could tame them. But your 
knightliness is due elsewhere ; and I commit myself to the 
fortune of war. It is a battle for women everywhere; 
under the most favourable conditions among my dear com- 
mon English. I have not my maid with me, or else I 
should not dare.” 

She paid for a third-class ticket, amused by Dacier’s look 
of entreaty and trouble. 

“ Of course I obey,” he murmured. 

“I have the habit of exacting it in matters concerning 
my independence,” she said; and it arrested some rumbling 
notions in his head as to a piece of audacity on the starting 
of the train. They walked up and down the platform till 
the bell rang and the train came rounding beneath an arch. 

“ Oh, by the way, may I ask ? ” — he said : “ was it your 


dtana’s night-watch 195 

article m Whitmonby’s journal on a speech of mine last 
week ? ” 

“The guilty writer is confessed.” 

“ Let me thank you.” 

“Don’t. But try to believe it written on public grounds 
— if the task is not too great.” 

“ I may call ? ” 

“ You will be welcome.” 

“ To tell you of the funeral — the last of him ! " 

" Do not fail to come.” 

She could have laughed to see him jumping on the steps 
of the third-class carriages one after another to choose her 
company for her. In those pre-democratic blissful days 
before the miry Deluge, the opinion of the requirements 
of poor English travellers entertained by the Seigneur 
j Directors of the class above them, was that they differed 
from cattle in stipulating for seats. With the exception of 
that provision to suit their weakness, the accommodation ex- 
tended to them resembled pens, and the seats were emphat- 
ically seats of penitence, intended to grind the sitter for 
his mean pittance payment and absence of aspiration to a 
higher state. Hard angular wood, a low roof, a shabby 
j square of window aloof, demanding of him to quit the seat 
he insisted on having, if he would indulge in views of the 
passing scenery, — such was the furniture of dens where a 
refinement of castigation was practised on villain poverty 
by denying leathers to the windows, or else buttons to the 
leathers, so that the windows had either to be up or down, 
but refused to shelter and freshen simultaneously. 

Dacier selected a compartment occupied by two old 
women, a mother and babe and little maid, and a labouring 
man. There he installed her, with an eager look that she 
would not notice. 

“ You will want the window down,” he said. 

She applied to her fellow-travellers for the permission ; 

; and struggling to get the window down, he was irritated 
I to animadvert on “these carriages” of the benevolent rail 
way Companv- 

“ Do not forget that the wealthy are well treated, or you 
may be unjust,” said she, to pacify him. 

His mouth sharpened its line while he tried arts and 


196 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


energies on the refractory window. She told him to leave 
it. “You can’t breathe this atmosphere !” he cried, and 
called to a porter, who did the work, remarking that it was 
’Vdier stiff. 

The door was banged and fastened. Dacier had to hang on 
the step to see her in the farewell. From the platform he 
saw the top of her bonnet ; and why she should have been 
guilty of this freak of riding in an unwholesome carriage, 
tasked his power of guessing. He was too English even to 
have taken the explanation, for he detested the distinguish- 
ing of the races in his country, and could not therefore have 
comprehended her peculiar tenacity of the sense of injury 
as long as enthusiasm did not arise to obliterate it. He re- 
quired a course of lessons in Irish. 

Sauntering down the lane, he called at Simon Rofe’s 
cottage, and spoke very kindly to the gamekeeper’s wife. 
That might please Diana. It was all he could do at 
present. 


CHAPTER XXI 

‘‘THE YOUNG MINISTER OF STATE 99 

Descriptions in the newspapers of the rural funeml of 
Lord Dannisburgh had the effect of rousing flights of 
tattlers with a twittering of the disused name of Warwick; 
our social Gods renewed their combat, and the verdict of 
the jury was again overhauled, to be attacked and main- 
tained, the carpers replying to the champions that they 
held to their view of it : as heads of bull-dogs are expected 
to do when they have got a grip of one. It is a point of 
muscular honour with them never to relax their hold. 
They will tell you why : — they formed that opinion from 
the first. And but for the swearing of a particular wit- 
ness, upon whom the plaintiff had been taught to rely, 
the verdict would have been different — to prove their 
soundness of judgement. They could speak from private 
positive information of certain damnatory circumstances, 
derived from authentic sources.- Visits of a gentleman 


44 THE YOUNG MINISTER OF STATE ” 1999 

fco the house of a married lady in the absence of the hus- 
band ? Oh ! — The British Lucretia was very properly 
not legally at home to the masculine world of that day. 
She plied her distaff in pure seclusion, meditating on her 
absent lord; or else a fair proportion of the masculine 
world, which had not yet, has not yet, ‘ doubled Cape 
Turk/ approved her condemnation to the sack. 

There was talk in the feminine world, at Lady Wathiu’s 
assemblies. The elevation of her husband had extended 
and deepened her influence on the levels where it reigned 
before, but without, strange as we may think it now, assist- 
ing to her own elevation, much aspired for, to the smooth 
and lively upper pavement of Society, above its tumbled 
strata. She was near that distinguished surface, not on it. 
Her circle was practically the same as it was previous to 
the coveted nominal rank enabling her to trample on those 
beneath it. And women like that Mrs. Warwick, a woman 
of no birth, no money, not even honest character, enjoyed 
the entry undisputed, circulated among the highest : — 
because people took her rattle for wit ! — and because also 
our nobility, Lady Wathin feared, had no due regard for 
morality. Our aristocracy, brilliant and ancient though it 
was, merited rebuke. She grew severe upon aristocratic 
scandals, whereof were plenty among the frolicsome host 
just overhead, as vexatious as the drawing-room party to 
the lodger in the floor below, who has not received an 
invitation to partake of the festivities, and is required to 
digest the noise. But if ambition is oversensitive, moral 
indignation is ever consolatory, for it plants us on the 
Judgement Seat. There indeed we may, sitting with the 
very Highest, forget our personal disappointments in dis- 
pensing reprobation for misconduct, however eminent the 
offenders. 

She was Lady Wathin, and once on an afternoon’s call to 
see her poor Lady Dunstane at her town-house, she had 
been introduced to Lady Pennon, a patroness of Mrs. War 
wick, and had met a snub — an icy check-bow of the aristo- 
cratic head from the top of the spinal column, and not a 
word, not a look; — the half-turn of a head devoid of 
mouth and eyes 1 She practised that forbidding check- 
bow herself to perfection, so the endurance of it was 


x98 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

horrible. A noli me tangere, her husband termed it, in 
his ridiculous equanimity; and he might term it what he 
pleased — it was insulting. The solace she had was in 
hearing that hideous Radical Revolutionary things were 
openly spoken at Mrs. Warwick’s evenings with her 
friends: — impudently named “the elect of London.” 
Pleasing to reflect upon Mrs. Warwick as undermining 
her supporters, tc bring them some day down with a 
crash! Her “elect of London” were a queer gathering, 
by report of them! And Mr. Whitmonby too, no doubt 
a celebrity, was the righthand man at these dinner-parties 
of Mrs. Warwick. Where will not men go to be flattered 
by a pretty woman ! He had declined repeated, successive 
invitations to Lady Wathin’s table. But there of course 
he would not have had “the freedom :” that is, she rejoiced 
in thinking defensively and offensively, a moral wall en- 
closed her topics. The Hon. Percy Dacier had been 
brought to her Thursday afternoon by Mr. Quintin Manx, 
and he had one day dined with her; and he knew Mrs. 
Warwick — a little, he said. The opportunity was not lost 
to convey to him, entirely in the interest of sweet Con- 
stance Asper, that the moral world entertained a settled 
view of the very clever woman Mrs. Warwick certainly 
was. — He had asked Diana, on their morning walk to the 
station, whether she had an enemy : so prone are men, 
educated by the Drama and Fiction in the belief that the 
garden of civilized life must be at the mercy of the old 
wild devourers, to fancy “ villain whispers ” an indication of 
direct animosity. Lady Wathin had no sentiment of the 
kind. 

But she had become acquainted with the other side of 
che famous Dannisburgh case — the unfortunate plaintiff ; 
and compassion as well as morality moved her to put on a 
speaking air when Mr. Warwick’s name was mentioned. 
She pictured him to the ladies of her circle as “one of our 
true gentlemen in his deportment and his feelings.” He was, 
she would venture to say, her ideal of an English gentleman. 
“But now,” she added commiseratingly, “ruined; ruined 
in his health and in his prospects.” A lady inquired if it 
was the verdict that had thus affected him. Lady Wathin’s 
answer was reported over moral, or substratum, London t 


••THE YOUNG MINISTER OF STATE* 199 

<l He is the victim of a fatal passion for his wife ; and 
would take her back to-morrow were she to solicit his for- 
giveness.” Morality had something to say against this 
active marital charity, attributable, it was to be feared, to 
weakness of character on the part of the husband. Still 
Mrs. Warwick undoubtedly was one of those women (of 
Satanic construction) who have the art of enslaving the 
men unhappy enough to cross their path. The nature of 
the art was hinted, with the delicacy of dainty feet which 
have to tread in mire to get to safety. Men, alas! are 
snared in this way. Instances too numerous for the good 
repute of the swinish sex, were cited, and the question of 
how Morality was defensible from their gross ness passed 
without a tactical reply. There is no defence. Those 
women come like the Cholera Morbus — and owing to 
similar causes. They will prevail until the ideas of men 
regarding women are purified. Nevertheless the husband 
who could forgive, even propose to forgive, was deemed by 
consent generous, however weak. Though she might not 
have been wholly guilty, she had bitterly offended. And 
he despatched an emissary to her ? — The theme, one may, 
in their language, “fear,” was relished as a sugared acid. 
It was renewed in the late Autumn of the year, when An- 
tonia published her new book, entitled The Young Min- 
ister of State. The signature of the authoress was now 
known; and from this resurgence of her name in public, 
suddenly a radiation of tongues from the circle of Lady 
Wathin declared that the repentant Mrs. Warwick had 
gone back to her husband’s bosom and forgiveness ! The 
rumour spread in spite of sturdy denials at odd corners, 
counting the red-hot proposal of Mr. Sullivan Smith to eat 
his head and boots for breakfast if it was proved correct. 
It filled a yawn of the Clubs for the afternoon. Soon this 
wanton rumour was met and stifled by another of more 
morbific density, heavily charged as that which led the sad 
Eliza to her pyre. 

Antonia’s hero was easily identified. The Young Min- 
ister of State could be he only who was now at all her 
parties, always meeting her; had been spied walking with 
her daily in the park near her house, on his march down to 
Westminster during the session; and who positively went 


200 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


to concerts and sat under fiddlers to be near her. It ac- 
counted moreover for his. treatment of Constance Asper. 
What effrontery of the authoress, to placard herself with 
him in a book ! The likeness of the hero to Percy Dacier 
once established became striking to glaringness — a proof 
of her ability, and more of her audacity ; still more of her 
intention to flatter him up to his perdition. By the things 
written of him, one would imagine the conversations going 
on behind the scenes. She had the wiles of a Cleopatra, 
not without some of the Nilene’s experiences. A youth- 
ful Antony-Dacier would be little likely to escape her 
toils. And so promising a young man! The sigh, the 
tear for weeping over his destruction, almost fell, such 
vivid realizing of the prophesy appeared in its pathetic 
pronouncement. 

This low rumour, or malaria, began blowing in the Win- 
ter, and did not travel fast ; for strangely, there was hardly 
a breath of it in the atmosphere of Dacier, none in Diana’s. 
It rose from groups not so rapidly and largely mixing, and 
less quick to kindle ; whose crazy sincereness battened on 
the smallest morsel of fact and collected the fictitious by 
slow absorption. But as guardians of morality, often doing 
good duty in their office, they are persistent. When Par- 
liament assembled, Mr. Quintin Manx, a punctual member 
of the House, if nothing else, arrived in town. He was in- 
vited to dine with Lady Wathin. After dinner she spoke 
to him of the absent Constance, and heard of her being 
well, and expressed a great rejoicing at that. Whereupon 
(he burly old shipowner frowned and puffed. Constance, 
he said, had plunged into these new spangle, candle and 
high singing services ; was all for symbols, harps, effigies, 
what not. Lady Wathin’s countenance froze in hearing of 
it. She led Mr. Quintin to a wall-sofa, and said : “ Surely 
the dear child must have had a disappointment, for her to 
have taken to those foolish displays of religion ! It is 
generally a sign.” 

“Well, ma’am — my lady — I let girls go their ways in 
such things. I don’t interfere. But it’s that fellow, or 
nobody, with her. She has fixed her girl’s mind on him, 
and if she can’t columbine as a bride, she will as a nun. 
Young people must be at some harlequinade.” 


201 


“THE YOUNG MINISTER OF STATE” 

“But it is very shocking. And he ? ” 

“ He plays fast and loose, warm and cold. I ’m ready to 
settle twenty times a nobleman’s dowry on my niece : and 
she ’s a fine girl, a handsome girl, educated up to the brim, 
fit to queen it in any drawing-room. He holds her by some 
arts that don’t hold him, it seems. He ’s all for politics.” 

“Constance can scarcely be his dupe so far, I should 
think.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ Everything points to one secret of his conduct.” 

“ A woman ? ” 

Lady Wathin’s head shook for her sex’s pained affirms 
tive. 

Mr. Quintin in the same fashion signified ^he downright 
negative. “ The fellow ’s as cold as a fish.” 

“Flattery will do anything. There is, I fear, one.” 

“ Widow ? wife ? maid ? ” 

“ Married, I regret to say.” 

“ Well, if he ’d get over with it,” said Quintin, in whose 
notions the seductiveness of a married woman could be only 
temporary, for all the reasons pertaining to her state. At 
the same time his view of Percy Dacier was changed in 
thinking it possible that a woman could divert him from his 
political and social interests. He looked incredulous. 

“You have heard of a Mrs. Warwick?” said Lady 
Wathin. 

“ Warwick ! I have. I ’ve never seen her. At my 
broker’s in the City yesterday I saw the name on a 
Memorandum of purchase of Shares in a concern promising 
ten per cent., and not likely to carry the per annum into 
the plural. He told me she was a grand kind of woman, 
past advising.” 

“ For what amount ? ” 

“ Some thousands, I think it was.” 

“ She has no money : ” Lady Wathin corrected her 
emphasis : “ or ought to have none.” 

“ She can’t have got it from him .” 

“ Did you notice her Christian name ? ” 

“ I don’t recollect it, if I did. I thought the woman a 
donkey.” 

“ Would you consider me a busybody were I to try to 


202 


DIANA of the crossways 


mitigate this woman’s evil influence ? 1 love dear Con> 

stance, and should be happy to serve her.” 

“ I want my girl married,” said old Quintin. " He ’s one 
of my Parliamentary chiefs, with first-rate prospects ; good 
family, good sober fellow — at least I thought so ; by 
nature, I mean ; barring your incantations. He suits me, 
she liking him.” 

“ She admires him, I am sure.” 

“ She ’s dead on end for the fellow ! ” 

Lady Wathin felt herself empowered by Quintin Manx 
to undertake the release of sweet Constance Asper’s knight 
from the toils of his enchantress. For this purpose she 
had first an interview with Mr. Warwick, and next she 
hurried to Lady Dunstane at Copsley. There, after jum- 
bling Mr. Warwick’s connubial dispositions and Mrs. War- 
wick’s last book, and Mr. Percy Dacier’s engagement to 
the great heiress in a gossipy hotch-potch, she contrived to 
gather a few items of fact, as that The Young Minister 
was probably modelled upon Mr. Percy Hacier. Lady 
Dunstane made no concealment of it as soon as she grew 
sensible of the angling. But she refused her help to any 
reconciliation between Mr. and Mrs. Warwick. She de- 
clined to listen to Lady Wathin’s entreaties. She declined 
to give her reasons. — These bookworm women, whose 
pride it is to fancy that they can think for themselves, 
have a great deal of the heathen in them, as morality dis- 
covers when it wears the enlistment ribands and applies to 
them to win recruits for a service under the direct blessing 
of Providence. 

Lady Wathin left some darts behind her, in the form of 
moral exclamations ; and really intended morally. For 
though she did not like Mrs. Warwick, she had no wish 
to wound, other than by stopping her further studies of 
the Young Minister, and conducting him to the young lady 
loving him, besides restoring a bereft husband to his own. 
How sadly pale and worn poor Mr. Warwick appeared ! 
The portrayal of his withered visage to Lady Dunstane had 
quite failed to gain a show of sympathy. And so it is ever 
with your book-worm women pretending to be philosophical ! 
You sound them vainly for a manifestation of the common- 
est human sensibilities. They turn over the leaves of a 


“THE YOUNG MINISTER OF STATE*’ 203 

Latin book on their laps while you are supplicating them 
to assist in a work of charity ! 

Lady Wathin’s inter jectory notes haunted Emma’s ear. 
Yet she had seen nothing in Tony to let her suppose that 
there was trouble of her heart below the surface ; and her 
Tony when she came to Copsley shone in the mood of the 
day of Lord Dannisburgh’s drive down from London with 
her. She was running on a fresh work ; talked of composi- 
tion as a trifle. 

“ I suppose the Young Minister is Mr. Percy Dacier ? ” 
said Emma. 

“ Between ourselves he is,” Diana replied, smiling at a 
secret guessed. “You know my model and can judge of 
the likeness.” 

“ You write admiringly of him, Tony.” 

“ And I do admire him. So would you, Emmy, if you 
knew him as well as I do now. He pairs with Mr. Ked- 
worth ; he also is the friend of women. But he lifts us to 
rather a higher level of intellectual friendship. When the 
ice has melted — and it is thick at first — he pours forth 
all his ideas without reserve ; and they are deep and noble. 
Ever since Lord Dannisburgh’s death and our sitting to- 
gether, we have been warm friends — intimate, I would say, 
if it could be said of one so self-contained. In that respect, 
no young man was ever comparable with him. And I am 
encouraged to flatter myself that he unbends to me more 
than to others.” 

“He is engaged, or partly, I hear; why does he not 
marry?” 

“I wish he would !” Diana said, with a most brilliant 
candour of aspect. 

Emma read in it, that it would complete her happiness, 
possibly by fortifying her sense of security; and that 
seemed right. Her own meditations, illumined by the 
beautiful face in her presence, referred to the security of 
Mr. Dacier. 

“So, then, life is going smobthly,” said Emma. 

“Yes, at a good pace and smoothly: not a torrent — 
Thames-like, ‘ without o’erflowing full.’ It is not Lugano 
and the Salvatore. Perhaps it is better : as action is better 
than musing.” 


204 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


“No troubles whatever?” 

“None. Well, except an 'adorer* at times. I have 
to take him as my portion. An impassioned Caledonian 
has a little bothered me. I met him at Lady Pennon’s, 
and have been meeting him, as soon as I put foot out of 
my house, ever since. If I could impress and impound 
him to marry Mary Paynham, I should be glad. By the 
way, I have consented to let her try at a portrait of me. 
No, I have no troubles. I have friends, the choicest of 
the nation; I have health, a field for labour, fairish suc- 
cess with it; a mind alive, such as it is. I feel like that 
midsummer morning of our last drive out together, the 
sun high, clearish, clouded enough to be cool. And still 
I envy Emmy on her sofa, mastering Latin, biting at 
Greek. What a wise recommendation that was of Mr. 
Redworth’s ! He works well in the House. He spoke 
excellently the other night.” 

“ He runs over to Ireland this Easter.” 

“He sees for himself, and speaks with authority. He 
sees and feels. Englishmen mean well, but they require 
an extremity of misery to waken their feelings.” 

“It is coming, he says; and absit omen ! ” 

“Mr. Dacier says he is the one Englishman who may 
always be sure of an Irish hearing; and he does not cajole 
them, you know. But the English defect is really not 
want of feeling so much as want of foresight. They will 
not look ahead. A famine ceasing, a rebellion crushed, 
they jog on as before, with their Dobbin trot and blinker 
confidence in 'Saxon energy.’ They should study the 
Irish. I think it was Mr. Redworth who compared the gov- 
erning of the Irish to the management of a horse: the 
rider should not grow restive when the steed begins to 
kick: calmer; firm, calm, persuasive.” 

“Does Mr. Dacier agree? ” 

“Not always. He has the inveterate national belief 
that Celtic blood is childish, and the consequently illogical 
disregard of its hold of impressions. The Irish — for I 
have them in my heart, though I have not been among 
them for long at a time — must love you to serve you, and 
will hate you if you have done them injury and they have 
not wiped it out — they with a treble revenge, or you with 


“THE YOUNG MINISTER OF STATE” 205 

cordial benefits. I have told him so again and again: 
ventured to suggest measures. ” 

“He listens to you, Tony? ” 

“He says I have brains. It ends in a compliment.” 

“You have inspired Mr. Redworth.” 

“If I have, I have lived for some good.” 

Altogether her Tony’s conversation proved to Emma 
that her perusal of the model of The Young Minister of 
State was an artist’s, free, open, and not discoloured by 
the personal tincture. Her heart plainly was free and 
undisturbed. She had the same girl’s love of her walks 
where wild flowers grew; if possible, a keener pleasure. 
She hummed of her happiness in being at Copsley, singing 
her Planxty Kelly and The Puritani by turns. She stood 
on land: she was not on the seas. Emma thought so with 
good reason. 

She stood on land, it was true, but she stood on a cliff 
of the land, the seas below and about her; and she was 
enabled to hoodwink her friend because the assured sen- 
sation of her firm footing deceived her own soul, even 
while it took short flights to the troubled waters. Of her 
firm footing she was exultingly proud. She stood high, 
close to danger, without giddiness. If at intervals her soul 
flew out like lightning from the rift (a mere shot of invol- 
untary fancy, it seemed to her), the suspicion of instability 
made her draw on her treasury of impressions of the morn- 
ings at Lugano — 'her loftiest, purest, dearest; and these 
reinforced her. She did not ask herself why she should 
have to seek them for aid. In other respects her mind 
was alert and held no sly covers, as the fiction of a perfect 
ignorant innocence combined with common intelligence 
would have us to suppose that the minds of women can do. 
She was honest as long as she was not directly questioned, 
pierced to the innermost and sanctum of the bosom. She 
could honestly summon bright light to her eyes in wishing 
the man were married. She did not ask herself why she 
called it up. The remorseless progressive interrogations 
of a Jesuit Father in pursuit of the bosom’s verity might 
have transfixed it and shown her to herself even then a 
tossing vessel as to the spirit, far away from that firm landr 
she trod so bravely. 


206 


' DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Descending from the woody heights upon London, Diana 
would have said that her only anxiety concerned young Mr. 
Arthur Rhodes, whose position she considered precarious, 
and who had recently taken a drubbing for venturing to 
show a peep of his head, like an early crocus, in the 
literary market. Her Antonia’s last book had been re- 
viewed obediently to smart taps from the then command* 
ing baton of Mr. Tonans, and Mr. Whitmonby’s choice 
picking of specimens down three columns of his paper. A 
Literary Review (Charles Rainer’s property) had suggested 
that perhaps “the talented authoress might be writing too 
rapidly;” and another, actuated by the public taste of the 
period for our “ vigorous homely Saxon ” in one and two 
syllable words, had complained of a “tendency to polysyl- 
labic phraseology.” The remainder, a full majority, had 
sounded eulogy, with all their band-instruments, drum, 
trumpet, fife, trombone. Her foregoing work had raised 
her to Fame, which is the Court of a Queen when the lady 
has beauty and social influence, and critics are her dedi- 
cated courtiers, gaping for the royal mouth to be opened, 
and reserving the kicks of their independent manhood for 
infamous outsiders, whom they hoist in the style and par- 
ticular service of pitchforks. They had fallen upon a little 
volume of verse, “like a body of barn-door hens on a 
stranger chick,” Dijvna complained ; and she chid herself 
angrily for letting it escape her forethought to propitiate 
them on the author’s behalf. Young Rhodes was left with 
scarce a feather; and what remained to him appeared a 
preposterous ornament for the decoration of a shivering 
p,nd welted poet. He laughed, or tried the mouth of 
laughter. Antonia’s literary conscience was vexed at the 
different treatment she had met and so imperatively needed 
that the reverse of it would have threatened the smooth 
sailing of her costly household. A merry-go-round of 
creditors required a corresponding whirligig of receipts. 
She felt mercenary, debased by comparison with the well- 
scourged verse-mason, Orpheus of the untenanted city, who 
had done his publishing ingenuously for glory: a good 
instance of the comic-pathetic. She wrote to Emma, beg- 
ging her to take him in at Copsley for a few days : — “ 1 
told you I had no troubles. I am really troubled about 


“THE YOUNG MINISTER OF STATE” 207 

this poor boy. He has very little money and has embarked 
on literature. I cannot induce any of my friends to lend 
him a hand. Mr. Redworth gruffly insists on his going 
back to his law-clerk’s office and stool, and Mr. Dacier 
says that no place is vacant. The reality of Lord Dannis- 
burglTs death is brought before me by my helplessness. 
He would have made him an assistant private Secretary, 
pending a Government appointment, rather than let me 
plead in vain.” 

Mr. Rhodes with his travelling bag was packed off to 
Copsley, to enjoy a change of scene after his run of the 
gauntlet. He was very heartily welcomed by Lady 
Dunstane, both for her Tony’s sake and his own modest 
worship of that luminary, which could permit of being 
transparent; but chiefly she welcomed him as the living 
proof of Tony’s disengagement from anxiety, since he was 
her one spot of trouble, and could easily be comforted by 
reading with her, and wandering through the Spring 
woods along the heights. He had -a happy time, midway 
in air between his accomplished hostess and his protecting 
Goddess. His bruises were soon healed. Each day was 
radiant to him, whether it rained or shone; and by his 
looks and what he said of himself Lady Dunstane under- 
stood that he was in the highest temper of the human 
creature tuned to thrilling accord with nature. It was 
her generous Tony’s work. She blessed it, and liked the 
youth the better. 

During the stay of Mr. Arthur Rhodes at Copsley, Sir 
Lukin came on a visit to his wife. He mentioned reports 
in the scandal-papers: one, that Mr. P. D. would shortly 
lead to the altar the lovely heiress Miss A., Percy Dacier 
and Constance Asper: — 'another, that a reconciliation was 
to be expected between the beautiful authoress Mrs. W. 
and her husband. “Perhaps it ’s the best thing she can 
do,” Sir Lukin added. 

Lady Dunstane pronounced a woman’s unforgiving: 
“Never.” The revolt of her own sensations assured her 
of Tony’s unconquerable repugnance. In conversation 
subsequently with Arthur Rhodes, she heard that he knew 
the son of Mr. Warwick’s attorney, a Mr. Fenn; and he 
had gathered from him some information of Mr. Warwick’s 


208 ' DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS * 

condition of health. It had been alarming ; young Fenn sa ; d 
it was confirmed heart-disease. His father frequently saw 
Mr. Warwick, and said he was fretting himself to death. 

It seemed just a possibility that Tony’s natural com- 
passionateness had wrought on her to immolate herself 
and nurse to his end the man who had wrecked her life. 
Lady Dunstane waited for news. At last she wrote, touch- 
ing the report incidentally. There was no reply. The 
silence ensuing after such a question responded forcibly. 


CHAPTER XXII 

BETWEEN DIANA AND DACIER l THE WIND EAST OVEK 
BLEAK LAND 

On the third day of the Easter recess Percy Dacier 
landed from the Havre steamer at Caen and drove straight- 
way for the sandy coast, past fields of colza to brine-blown 
meadows of coarse grass, and then to the low dunes and 
long stretching sands of the ebb in semicircle: a desolate 
place at that season; with a dwarf fishing-village by the 
shore; an East wind driving landward in streamers every 
object that had a scrap to fly. He made head to the inn, 
where the first person he encountered in the passage was 
Diana’s maid Danvers, who relaxed from the dramatic 
exaggeration of her surprise at the sight of a real English 
gentleman in these woebegone regions, to inform him that 
her mistress might be found walking somewhere along the 
sea-shore, and had her dog to protect her. They were to 
stay here a whole week, Danvers added, for a conveyance 
of her private sentiments. Second thoughts however whis- 
pered to her shrewdness that his arrival could only be by 
appointment. She had been anticipating something of the 
sort for some time. 

Dacier butted against the stringing wind, that kept him 
at a rocking incline to his left for a mile. He then dis- 
cerned in what had seemed a dredger’s dot on the sands, a 
lady’s figure, unmistakably she, without the corroborating 


BETWEEN DIANA AND DACIER 


209 


testimony of Leander paw-deep in the low-tide water. She 
was out at a distance on the ebb-sands, hurtled, gyred, 
beaten to all shapes, m rolls, twists, volumes, like a blown 
banner-flag, by the pressing wind. A kerchief tied hei 
bonnet under her chin. Bonnet and breast-ribands rattled 
rapidly as drummer-sticks. She stood near the little run- 
ning ripple of the flat sea-water, as it hurried from a long 
streaked back to a tiny imitation of spray. When she 
turned to the shore she saw him advancing, but did not 
recognize; when they met she merely looked with wide 
parted lips. This was- no appointment. 

“ I had to see you, ” Dacier said. 

She coloured to a deeper red than the rose-conjuring 
wind had whipped in her cheeks. Her quick intuition of 
the reason of his coming barred a mental evasion, and she 
had no thought of asking either him or herself what special 
urgency had brought him. 

“I have been here four days.” 

“Lady Esquart spoke of the place.” 

“Lady Esquart should not have betrayed me.” 

“She did it inadvertently, without an idea of my profiting 
by it.” 

Diana indicated the scene in a glance. “ Dreary coun- 
try, do you tnink ? ” 

“ Anywhere ! ” — said he. 

They walked up the sand-heap. The roaring Easter with 
its shrieks and whistles at her ribands was not favourable 
to speech. His “Anywhere!” had a penetrating signifi- 
cance, the fuller for the break that left it vague. 

Speech between them was commanded; he could not be 
suffered to remain. She descended upon a sheltered path- 
way running along a ditch, the border of pastures where 
cattle cropped, raised heads, and resumed their one com- 
forting occupation. 

Diana gazed on them, smarting from the buffets of the 
wind she had met. 

“No play of their tails to-day,” she said, as she slack- 
ened her steps. “You left Lady Esquart well ? ” 

“Lady Esquart ... I think was well. I had to see 
you. I thought you would be with her in Berkshire, 
She told me of a little sea-side place close to Caen.” 


210 


DIANA OF THE CftOSSWAYS 


“You had to see me ?” 

“I miss you now if it ’s a day 1 ” 

“I heard a story in London . . .” 

“In London there are many stories. I heard one. Is 
there a foundation for it ? ” 

fi No” 

He breathed relieved. “ I wanted to see you once before 
... if it was true. It would have made a change in my 
life — a gap.” 

“You do me the honour to like my Sunday evenings ? ” 

“Beyond everything London can offer.” 

“A letter would have reached me.” 

“ I should have had to wait for the answer. There is no 
truth in it ? ” 

Her choice wa§ to treat the direct assailant frankly or 
imperil her defence by the ordinary feminine evolutions, 
which might be taken for inviting : poor pranks always. 

“There have been overtures,” she said. 

“Forgive me; I have scarcely the right to ask . . . speak 
of it.” 

“ My friends may use their right to take an interest in 
my fortunes.” 

“I thought I might, on my way to Paris, turn aside . . . 
coming by this route.” 

“If you determined not to lose much of your time.” 

The coolness of her fencing disconcerted a gentleman 
conscious of his madness. She took instant advantage of 
any circuitous move; she gave him no practicable point. 
He was little skilled in the arts of attack, and felt that 
she checked his impetuousness ; respected her for it, chafed 
at it, writhed with the fervours precipitating him here, 
and relapsed on his pleasure in seeing her face, hearing 
her voice. 

“Your happiness, I hope, is the chief thought in such a 
case,” he said. 

“I am sure you would consider it.” 

“I can’t quite forget my own.” 

“You compliment an ambitious hostess.” 

Dacier glanced across the pastures. “What was it that 
tempted you to this place?” 

“ A poet would say it looks like a figure in the shroud. 


BETWEEN DIANA AND DACIER 211 

It has no features; it has assort of grandeur belonging to 
death. I heard of it as the place where I might be certain 
of not meeting an acquaintance.” 

“And I am the intruder.” 

“An hour or two will not give you that title.” 

“Am I to count the minutes by my watch? ” 

“By the sun. We will supply you an omelette and 
piquette, and send you back sobered and friarly to Caen 
for Paris at sunset.” 

“ Let the fare be Spartan. I could take my black broth 
with philosophy every day of the year under your auspices. 
What I should miss . . .” 

“You bring no news of the world or the House? ” 

“None. You know as much as I know. The Irish 
agitation is chronic. The Corn-Law threatens to be the 
same.” 

“ And your Chief — in personal colloquy? ” 

“ He keeps a calm front. I may tell you : — there is 
nothing I would not confide to you: he has let fall some 
dubious words in private. I don’t know what to think of 
them.” 

“ But if he should waver? ” 

“It ’s not wavering. It ’s the openness of his mind.” 

“Ah! the mind. We imagine it free. The House and 
the country are the sentient frame governing the mind of 
the politician more than his ideas. He cannot think inde- 
pendently of them: — nor I of my natural anatomy. You 
will test the truth of that after your omelette and piquette, 
and marvel at the quitting of your line of route for Paris. 
As soon as the mind attempts to think independently, it is 
like a kite with the cord cut, and performs a series of darts 
and frisks, that have the look of wildest liberty till you 
see it fall flat to earth. The openness of his mind is most 
honourable to him.” 

“Ominous for his party.” 

“Likely to be good for his country.” 

“That is the question.” 

“Prepare to encounter it. In politics I am with the 
active minority on behalf of the inert but suffering 
majority. That is my rule. It leads, unless you have a 
despotism, to the conquering side. It is always the noblest. 


212 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


I won’t say, listen to me; only do believe my words have 
some weight. This is a question of bread.” 

“It involves many other questions.” 

“And how clearly those leaders put their case! They 
are admirable debaters. If I were asked to write against 
them, I should have but to quote them to confound my 
argument. I tried it once, and wasted a couple of my 
precious hours.” 

“They are cogent debaters,” Dacier assented. “They 
make me wince now and then, without convincing me : ■ — 
I own it to you. The confession is not agreeable, though 
it ’s a small matter.” 

“ One’s pride may feel a touch with the foils as keenly 
as the point of a rapier,” said Diana. 

The remark drew a sharp look of pleasure from him. 

“Does the Princess Egeria propose to dismiss the indi- 
vidual she inspires, when he is growing most sensible of 
her wisdom? ” 

“A young Minister of State should be gleaning at large 
when holiday is granted him.” 

Dacier coloured. “ May I presume on what is currently 
reported? ” 

“Parts, parts; a bit here, a bit there,” she rejoined. 
“Authors find their models where they can, and generally 
hit on the nearest.” 

“ Happy the nearest ! ” 

“ If you run to interjections I shall cite you a sentence 
from your latest speech in the House.” 

He asked for it, and to school him she consented to 
flatter with her recollection of his commonest words: 
“ ‘ Dealing with subjects of this nature emotionally does 
not advance us a calculable inch.’” 

“I must have said that in relation to hard matter of 
business.” 

“It applies. There is my hostelry, and the spectral 
form of Danvers, utterly depaysee. Have you spoken to 
the poor soul ? I can never discover the links of her 
attachment to my service.” 

“ She knows a good mistress. — 1 have but a few minutes, 
if you are relentless. May I . . . shall I ever be privi* 
leged to sneak your Christian name?” 


BETWEEN DIANA AND DACIER 21 3 

“ My Christian name ! It is Pagan. In one sphere I 
am Hecate. Remember that.” 

“I am not among the people who so regard you.” 

“ The time may come.” 

“Diana!” 

“Constance ! ” 

“I break no tie. I owe no allegiance whatever to the 
name.” 

“Keep to the formal title with me. We are Mrs. 
Warwick and Mr. Dacier. I think I am two years younger 
than you ; socially therefore ten in seniority ; and I know 
how this flower of friendship is nourished and may be 
withered. You see already what you have done? You 
have cast me on the discretion of my maid. I suppose her 
trusty, but I am at her mercy, and a breath from her to 
the people beholding me as Hecate queen of Witches ! . . . 
I have a sensation of the scirocco it would blow.” 

“In that event, the least I can offer is my whole life.” 

“We will not conjecture the event.” 

“The best I could hope for! ” 

“I see I shall have to revise the next edition of The 
Young Minister, and make an emotional curate of him. 
Observe Danvers. The woman is wretched; and now she 
sees me coming she pretends to be using her wits in study- 
ing the things about her, as I have directed. She is a 
riddle. I have the idea that any morning she may explode; 
and yet I trust her and sleep soundly. I must be free, 
though I vex the world’s watchdogs. — So, Danvers, you 
are noticing how thoroughly Frenchwomen do their work.” 

Danvers replied with a slight mincing: “They may, 
ma’am; but they chatter chatter so.” 

“The result proves that it is not a waste of energy 
They manage their fowls too.” 

“They ’ve no such thing as mutton, ma’am.” 

Dacier patriotically laughed. 

“ She strikes the apology for wealthy and leisurely land- 
lords,” Diana said. 

Danvers remarked that the poor fed meagrely in France. 
She was not convinced of its being good for them by hear- 
ing that they could work on it sixteen hours out of the 
four and twenty. 


214 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Mr. Percy Dacier’s repast was furnished to him half an 
hour later. At sunset Diana, taking Danvers beside her, 
walked with him to the line of the country road bearing 
on Caen. The wind had sunk. A large brown disk 
paused rayless on the western hills. 

“A Dacier ought to feel at home in Normandy; and. you 
may have sprung from this neighbourhood,” said she, 
simply to chat. “Here the land is poorish, and a mile 
inland rich enough to bear repeated crops of colza, which 
tries the soil, I hear. As for beauty, those blue hills you 
see, enfold charming valleys. I meditate an expedition 
to Harcourt before I return. An English professor of his 
native tongue at the Lycee at Caen told me on my way 
here that for twenty shillings a week you may live in 
royal ease round about Harcourt. So we have our bed and 
board in prospect if fortune fails us, Danvers.” 

“I would rather die in England, ma’am,” was the maid’s 
reply. 

Dacier set foot on his carriage-step. He drew a long 
breath to say a short farewell, and he and Diana parted. 

They parted as the plainest of sincere good friends, each 
at heart respecting the other for the repression of that 
which their hearts craved; any word of which might have 
carried them headlong, bound together on a Mazeppa-race, 
with scandal for the hounding wolves, and social ruin for 
the rocks and torrents. 

Dacier was the thankfuller, the most admiring of the 
two; at the same time the least satisfied. He saw the 
abyss she had aided him in escaping ; and it was refresh- 
ful to look abroad after his desperate impulse. Prominent 
as he stood before the world, he could not think without a 
shudder of behaving like a young frenetic of the passion. 
Those whose aim is at the leadership of the English people 
know, that however truly based the charges of hypocrisy, 
soundness of moral fibre runs throughout the country and 
is the national integrity, which may condone old sins for 
present service, but will not have present sins to flout it. 
He was in tune with the English character. The passion 
was in him nevertheless, and the stronger for a slow 
growth that confirmed its union of the mind and heart. 
Her counsel fortified him, her suggestions opened springs; 


BETWEEN DIANA AND DACIER 


215 


her phrases were golden-lettered in his memory; and more, 
she had worked an extraordinary ehange in his views of 
life ‘and aptitude for social converse: he acknowledged it 
with genial candour. Through her he was encouraged, 
led, excited to sparkle with the witty, feel new gifts, o ? 
a greater breadth of nature ; and thanking her, he became 
thirstily susceptible to her dark beauty; he claimed to 
have found the key of her, and he prized it. She was not 
passionless: the blood flowed warm. Proud, chaste, she 
was nobly spirited; having an intellectual refuge from the 
besiegings of the blood; a rock-fortress. The “wife no 
wife ” appeared to him, striking the higher elements of the 
man, the commonly masculine also. — Would he espouse 
her, had he the chance? — to-morrow! this instant! With 
her to back him, he would be doubled in manhood, doubled 
in brain and heart-energy. To call her wife, spring from 
her and return, a man might accept his fate to fight Trojan 
or Greek, sure of his mark on the enemy. 

But if, after all, this imputed Helen of a decayed Paris 
passed, submissive to the legitimate solicitor, back to her 
husband ? 

The thought shot Dacier on his legs for a look at the 
blank behind him. He vowed she had promised it should 
not be. Could it ever be, after the ruin the meanly sus- 
picious fellow had brought upon her? — Diana voluntarily 
reunited to the treacherous cur? 

He sat, resolving sombrely that if the debate arose he 
would try what force he had to save her from such an, 
ignominy, and dedicate his life to her, let the world wag 
its tongue. So the knot would be cut. 

Men unaccustomed to a knot in their system find the pros- 
pect of cutting it an extreme relief, even when they know 
that the cut has an edge to wound mortally as well as 
pacify. The wound was not heavy payment for the rap- 
ture of having so incomparable a woman his own. He 
reflected wonderingly on the husband, as he had previously 
done, and came again to the conclusion that it was a poor 
creature, abjectly jealous of a wife he could neither mas- 
ter, nor equal, nor attract. And thinking of jealousy, 
Dacier felt hone; none of individuals, only of facts: her 
gia-rriag-o. her bondage. Her condemnation to perpetual 


216 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


widowhood angered him, as at an unrighteous decree. 
The sharp sweet bloom of her beauty, fresh in swarthi- 
ness, under the whipping Easter, cried out against th*it 
loathed inhumanity. Or he made it cry. 

Being a stranger to the jealousy of men, he took the soft 
assurance that he was preferred above them all. -Com- 
petitors were numerous : not any won her eyes as he did. 
She revealed nothing of the same pleasures in the shining 
of the others touched by her magical wand. Would she 
have pardoned one of them the “ Diana ! ” bursting from 
his mouth? 

She was not a woman for trifling, still less for secresy. 
He was as little the kind of lover. Both would be ready 
to take up their burden, if the burden was laid on them. 
— Diana had thus far impressed him. 

Meanwhile he faced the cathedral towers of the ancient 
Norman city, standing up in the smoky hues of the West; 
and a sentence out of her book seemed fitting to the scene 
and what he felt. He rolled it over luxuriously as the 
next of delights to having her beside him. — She wrote of 
“ Thoughts that are hare dark outlines , coloured by some old 
passion of the soul , like towers of a distant city seen in the 
funeral waste of day.” — His bluff English anti-poetic 
training would have caused him to shrug at the stuff com- 
ing from another pen: he might condescendingly have 
criticized it, with a sneer embalmed in humour. The 
words were hers ; she had written them ; almost by a sort 
of anticipation, he imagined ; for he at once fell into the 
mood they suggested, and had a full crop of the “bare 
dark outlines ” of thoughts coloured by his particular form 
of passion. 

Diana had impressed him powerfully when she set him 
swallowing and assimilating a sentence ethereally thin in 
substance, of mere sentimental significance, that he would 
antecedently have read aloud in a drawing-room, picking 
up the book by hazard, as your modern specimen of roman- 
tic vapouring. Mr. Dacier however was at the time in 
observation of the towers of Caen, fresh from her presence, 
animated to some conception of her spirit. He drove into 
the streets, desiring, half determining, to risk a drive back 
on the morrow. 


A VISIT TO DIANA 


217 


The cold light of the morrow combined with his fear of 
distressing her to restrain him. Perhaps he thought it 
well not to risk his gains. He was a northerner in blood. 
He may have thought it well not further to run the per* 
sonal risk immediately. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

RECORDS A VISIT TO DIANA FROM ONE OF THE WORLD’S 
GOOD WOMEN 

Pure disengagement of contemplativeness had selected 
Percy Dacier as the model of her Young Minister of 
State, Diana supposed. Could she otherwise have dared 
Co sketch him ? She certainly would not have done it now. 

That was a reflection similar to what is entertained by 
Dne who has dropped from a precipice to the midway ledge 
over the abyss, where caution of the whole sensitive being 
is required for simple self-preservation. How could she 
have been induced to study and portray him ! It seemed 
a form of dementia. 

She thought this while imagining the world to be inter- 
rogating her. When she interrogated herself, she flew to 
Lugano and her celestial Salvatore, that she might be de- 
fended from a charge of the dreadful weakness of her sex. 
Surely she there had proof of her capacity for pure disen- 
gagement. Even in recollection the springs of spiritual 
happiness renewed the bubbling crystal play. She believed 
that a divineness had wakened in her there, to strengthen 
her to the end, ward her from any complicity in her sex’s 
culprit blushing. 

Dacier’s cry of her name was the cause, she chose to 
think, of the excessive circumspection she must henceforth 
practise ; precariously footing, embracing hardest earth, the 
plainest rules, to get back to safety. Not that she was per- 
sonally endangered, or at least not spiritually ; she could 
always fly in soul to her heights. But she had now to be 
on guard, constantly in the fencing attitude. And watch- 


218 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


ful of herself as well. That was admitted with a ready 
frankness, to save it from being a necessitated and painful 
confession: for the voluntary acquiescence, if it involved 
her in her sex, claimed an individual exemption. “ Women 
are women, and I am a woman: but I am I, and unlike 
them : I see we are weak, and weakness tempts : in owning 
the prudence of guarded steps, I am armed. It is by dis- 
sembling, feigning immunity, that we are imperilled.” She 
would have phrased it so, with some anger at her feminine 
nature as well as at the subjection forced on her by circum- 
stances. 

Besides, her position and Percy Dacier’s threw the fancied 
danger into remoteness. The world was her stepmother, 
vigilant to become her judge ; and the world was his task- 
master, hopeful of him, yet able to strike him down for an 
offence. She saw their situation as he did. The course of 
folly must be bravely taken, if taken at all. Disguise de- 
graded her to the reptiles. 

This was faced. Consequently there was no fear of it. 

She had very easily proved that she had skill and self- 
possession to keep him rational, and therefore they could 
continue to meet. A little outburst of frenzy to a reputably 
handsome woman could be treated as the froth of a passing 
wave. Men have the trick, infants their fevers. 

Diana’s days were spent in reasoning. Her nights were 
not so tuneable to the superior mind. When asleep she 
was the sport of elves that danced her into tangles too deli- 
ciously unravelled, and left new problems for the wise-eyed 
and anxious morning. She solved them with the thought 
that in sleep it was the mere ordinary woman who fell a 
prey to her tormentors ; awake, she dispersed the swarm, 
her sky was clear. Gradually the persecution ceased, thanks 
to her active pen. 

A letter from her legal adviser, old Mr. Braddock, in- 
formed her that no grounds existed for apprehending mari- 
tal annoyance, and late in May her household had resumed 
its customary round. 

She examined her accounts. The Debit and Credit sides 
presented much of the appearance of male and female in 
our jog-trot civilization. They matched middling well; 
with rather too marked a tendency to strain the leash aud 


A VISIT TO DIANA 


219 


run frolic on the part of friend Debit (the wanton male) ; 
which deepened the blush of the comparison. Her father 
had noticed the same funny thing in his effort to balance 
his tugging accounts: “Now then for a look at Man and 
Wife:” except that he made Debit stand for the portly 
frisky female, Credit the decorous and contracted other 
half, a prim gentleman of a constitutionally lean habit of 
body, remonstrating with her. “ You seem to forget that 
we are married, my dear, and must walk in step or bundle 
into the Bench,” Dan Merion used to say. 

Diana had not so much to rebuke in Mr. Debit ; or not at 
the first reckoning. But his ways were curious. She grew 
distrustful of him, after dismissing him with a quiet ad- 
monition and discovering a series of ambush bills, which he 
must have been aware of when he was allowed to pass 
as an honourable citizen. His answer to her reproaches 
pleaded the necessitousness of his purchases and expendi- 
ture : a capital plea; and Mrs. Credit was requested by 
him, in a courteous manner, to drive her pen the faster, so 
that she might wax to a corresponding size and satisfy the 
world’s idea of fitness in couples. She would have costly 
furniture, because it pleased her taste ; and a French cook, 
for a like reason, in justice to her guests ; and trained ser- 
vants ; and her tribe of pensioners ; flowers she would have 
profuse and fresh at her windows and over the rooms ; and 
the pictures and engravings on the walls were (always for 
the good reason mentioned) choice ones; and she had a 
love of old lace, she loved colours as she loved cheerfulness, 
and silks, and satin hangings, Indian ivory carvings, count- 
less mirrors, Oriental woods, chairs and desks with some 
feature or a flourish in them, delicate tables with antelope 
legs, of approved workmanship in the chronology of Euro- 
pean upholstery, and marble clocks of cunning device to 
symbol Time, mantel-piece decorations, illustrated editions 
of her favourite authors ; her bed-chambers, too, gave the 
nest for sleep a dainty cosiness in aerial draperies. Hence, 
more or less directly, the peccant bills. Credit was reduced 
to reckon to a nicety the amount she could rely on posi- 
tively : her fixed income from her investments and the let- 
ting of The Crossways : the days of half-yearly payments 
that would magnify her to some proportions beside the 


420 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


alarming growth of her partner, who was proud of it, and 
referred her to the treasures she could summon with her 
pen, at a murmur of dissatisfaction. His compliments 
were sincere; they were seductive. He assured her that 
she had struck a rich vein in an inexhaustible mine: by 
writing only a very little faster she could double her in- 
come ; counting a broader popularity, treble it ; and so on 
a tide of success down the widening river to a sea sheer 
golden. Behold how it sparkles ! Are we then to stint our 
winged hours of youth for want of courage to realize the 
riches we can command ? Debit was eloquent, he was un- 
answerable. 

Another calculator, an accustomed and lamentably-scru- 
pulous arithmetician, had been at work for some time upon 
a speculative summing of the outlay of Diana’s establish- 
ment, as to its chances of swamping the income. Redworth 
could guess pretty closely the cost of a household, if his 
care for the holder set him venturing on averages. He 
knew nothing of her ten per cent, investment and con- 
sidered her fixed income a beggarly regiment to marshal 
against the invader. He fancied however, in his ignorance 
of literary profits, that a popular writer, selling several 
editions, had come to an El Dorado. There was the mine. 
It required a diligent working. Diana was often struck by 
hearing Redworth ask her when her next book might be ex- 
pected. He appeared to have an eagerness in hurrying her 
to produce, and she had to say that she was not a nimble 
writer. His flattering impatience was vexatious. He ad- 
mired her work, yet he did his utmost to render it little 
admirable. His literary taste was not that of young Arthur 
Rhodes, to whom she could read her chapters, appearing to 
take counsel upon them while drinking the eulogies : she 
suspected him of prosaically wishing her to make money, 
and though her exchequer was beginning to know the need 
of it, the author’s lofty mind disdained such sordidness : — 
to be excused, possibly, for a failing productive energy. 
She encountered obstacles to imaginative composition. 
With the pen in her hand, she would fall into heavy mus- 
ings; break a sentence to muse, and not on the subject 
She slept unevenly at night, was drowsy by day, unless the 
open air was about her, or animating friends. Redworth’s 


A VISIT TO DIANA 


221 


urgency to get her to publish was particularly annoying 
when she felt how greatly The Young Minister of State 
would have been improved had she retained the work to 
brood over it, polish, re-write passages, perfect it. Her 
musings embraced long dialogues of that work, never 
printed; they sprang up, they passed from memory; leav- 
ing a distaste for her present work : The Cantatrice : far 
more poetical than the preceding, in the opinion of Arthur 
Rhodes ; and the story was more romantic ; modelled on 
a Prima Donna she had met at the musical parties of Henry 
Wilmers, after hearing Redworth tell of Charles Rainer’s 
quaint passion for the woman, or the idea of the woman. 
Diana had courted her, studied and liked her. The picture 
she was drawing of the amiable and gifted Italian, of her 
villain Roumanian husband, and of the eccentric, high- 
minded, devoted Englishman, was good in a fashion ; but 
considering the theme, she had reasonable apprehension 
that her Cantatrice would not repay her for the time and 
labour bestowed on it. No clever transcripts of the dia- 
logue of the day occurred ; no hair-breadth ’scapes, perils 
by sea and land, heroisms of the hero, fine shrieks of the 
heroine ; no set scenes of catching pathos and humour ; no 
distinguishable points of social satire — equivalent to a 
smacking of the public on the chaps, which excites it to 
grin with keen discernment of the author’s intention. She 
did not appeal to the senses nor to a superficial discern- 
ment. So she had the anticipatory sense of its failure; 
and she wrote her best, in perverseness ; of course she 
wrote slowly; she wrote more and more realistically of 
the characters and the downright human emotions, less of 
the wooden supernumeraries of her story, labelled for broad 
guffaw or deluge tears — the grappling natural links be- 
tween our public and an author. Her feelings were aloof. 
They flowed at a hint of a scene of The Young Minister. 
She could not put them into The Cantatrice. And Arthur 
Rhodes pronounced this work poetical beyond its predeces- 
sors, for the reason that the chief characters were alive and 
the reader felt their pulses. He meant to say, they were 
poetical inasmuch as they were creations. 

The slow progress of a work not driven by the author’s 
feelings necessitated frequent consultations between Debit 


222 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


and Credit, resulting in altercations, recriminations, discord 
of the yoked and divergent couple. To restore them to 
their proper trot in harness, Diana reluctantly went to her 
publisher for an advance item of the sum she was to receive, 
and the act increased her distaste. An idea came that she 
would soon cease to be able to write at all. What then ? 
Perhaps by selling her invested money, and ultimately The 
Crossways, she would have enough for her term upon earth. 
Necessarily she had to think that short, in order to reckon 
it as nearly enough. “ I am sure,” she said to herself, “ I 
shall not trouble the world very long.” A strange languor 
beset her ; scarcely melancholy, for she conceived the cheer- 
fulness of life and added to it in company ; but a nerveless- 
ness, as though she had been left by the stream on the 
banks, and saw beauty and pleasure sweep along and away, 
while the sun that primed them dried her veins. At this 
time she was gaining her widest reputation for brilliancy of 
wit. Only to welcome guests were her evenings ever spent 
at home. She had no intimate understanding of the deadly 
wrestle of the conventional woman with her nature which 
she was undergoing below the surface. Perplexities she 
acknowledged, and the prudence of guardedness. “But as 
I am sure not to live very long, we may as well meet.” 
Her meetings with Percy Dacier were therefore hardly 
shunned, and his behaviour did not warn her to discounte- 
nance them. It would have been cruel to exclude him from 
her select little dinners of eight. Whitmonby, Westlake, 
Henry Wilmers and the rest, she perhaps aiding, schooled 
him in the conversational art. She heard it said of him, 
that the courted discarder of the sex, hitherto a mere 
politician, was wonderfully humanized. Lady Pennon fell 
to talking of him hopefully. She declared him to be one of 
the men who unfold tardity, and only await the mastering 
passion. If the passion had come, it was controlled. His 
command of himself melted Diana. How could she forbid 
his entry to the houses she frequented ? She was glad to 
see him. He showed his pleasure in seeing her. Remem- 
bering his tentative indiscretion on those foreign sands, she 
reflected that he had been easily checked : and the like was 
not to be said of some others. Beautiful women in her 
position provoke an intemperateness that contrasts touch- 


A VISIT TO DIANA 


228 


ingly with the self-restraint of a particular admirer. Her 
“ impassioned Caledonian ” was one of a host, to speak of 
whom and their fits of lunacy even to her friend Emma, 
was repulsive. She bore with them, foiled them, passed 
them, and recovered her equanimity ; but the contrast called 
ho her to dwell on it, the self-restraint whispered of a depth 
of passion. . . . 

She was shocked at herself for a singular tremble she 
experienced, without any beating of the heart, on hearing 
one day that the marriage of Percy Dacier and Miss Asper 
was at last definitely fixed. Mary Paynham brought her 
the news. She had it from a lady who had come across 
Miss Asper at Lady Wathin’s assemblies, and considered 
the great heiress extraordinarily handsome. 

“A golden miracle, ” Diana gave her words to say. 
“Good looks and gold together are rather superhuman. 
The report may be this time true.” 

Next afternoon the card of Lady Wathin requested Mrs. 
Warwick to grant her a private interview. 

Lady Wathin, as one of the order of women who can do 
anything in a holy cause, advanced toward Mrs. Warwick, 
unabashed by the burden of her mission, and spinally pre- 
pared, behind benevolent smilings, to repay dignity of mien 
with a similar erectness of dignity. They touched fingers 
and sat. The preliminaries to the matter-of the interview 
were brief between ladies physically sensible of antagonism 
and mutually too scornful of subterfuges in one another’s 
presence to beat the bush. 

Lady Wathin began. “ I am, you are aware, Mrs. War- 
wick, a cousin of your friend Lady Dunstane.” 

“ You come to me on business ? ” Diana said. 

“ It may be so termed. I have no personal interest in it. 
I come to lay certain facts before you which I think you 
should know. We think it better that an acquaintance, and 
one of your sex, should state the case to you, instead of 
having recourse to formal intermediaries, lawyers ...” 

“ Lawyers ? ” 

“ Well, my husband is a lawyer, it is true. In the course 
of his professional vocations he became acquainted with 
Mr. Warwick. We have latterly seen a good deal of him 
He is, I regret to say, seriously unwell.” 


224 


DrANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ I have heard of it.” 

“ He has no female relations, it appears. He needs more 
care than he can receive from hirelings.” 

“ Are you empowered by him, Lady Wathin ? ” 

“I am, Mrs. Warwick. We will not waste time in 
apologies. He is most anxious for a reconciliation. It 
seems to SirCramborne and to me the most desireable thing 
for all parties concerned, if you can be induced to regard it 
in that light. Mr. Warwick may or may not live ; but the 
estrangement is quite undoubtedly the cause of his illness. 
I touch on nothing connected with it. I simply wish that 
you should not be in ignorance of his proposal and his 
condition.” 

Diana bowed calmly. “I grieve at his condition. His 
proposal has already been made and replied to.” 

“ Oh, but, Mrs. Warwick, an immediate and decisive 
refusal of a proposal so fraught with consequences! ...” 

“Ah, but, Lady Wathin, you are now outstepping the 
limits prescribed by the office you have undertaken.” 

“ You will not lend ear to an intercession ? ” 

“ I will not.” 

“Of course, Mrs. Warwick, it is not for me to hint at 
things that lawyers could say on the subject.” 

“ Your forbearance is creditable, Lady Wathin.” 

“Believe me, Mrs. Warwick, the step is — I speak in 
my husband’s name as well as my own — strongly to be 
advised.” 

“ If I hear one word more of it, I leave the country.” 

“I should be sorry indeed at any piece of rashness 
depriving your numerous friends of your society. We 
have recently become acquainted with Mr. Bedworth, and 
I know the loss you would be to them. I have not 
attempted an appeal to your feelings, Mrs. Warwick.” 

“ I thank you warmly, Lady Wathin, for what you have 
not done.” 

The aristocratic airs of Mrs. Warwick were annoying to 
Lady Wathin when she considered that they were borrowed, 
and that a pattern morality could regard the woman as 
ostracized: nor was it agreeable to be looked at through 
eyelashes under partially lifted brows. She had come to 
appeal to the feelings of the wife ; at any rate, to discover 
If tihp. bad «anriA and was. better than a wild adventnrAso. 


A VISIT TO DIANA 225 

“ Our life below is short ! ” she said. To which Diana 
tacitly assented. 

“ We have our little term, Mrs. Warwick. It is soon 
over.” 

“ On the other hand, the platitudes concerning it are 
eternal.” 

Lady Wathin closed her eyes, that the like effect might 
be produced on her ears. “ Ah ! they are the truths. But 
it is not my business to preach. Permit me to say that I 
feel deeply for your husband.” 

“ I am glad of Mr. Warwick’s having friends ; and they are 
many, I hope.” 

“ They cannot behold him perishing, without an effort on 
his behalf.” 

A chasm of silence intervened. Wifely pity was not 
sounded in it. 

“ He will question me, Mrs. Warwick.” 

“ You can report to him the heads of our conversation* 
Lady Wathin.” 

“ Would you — it is your husband’s most earnest wish ; and 
our house is open to his wife and to him for the purpose ; 
and it seems to us that . . . indeed it might avert a catas- 
trophe you would necessarily deplore : — would you consent 
to meet him at my house ? ” 

“ It has already been asked, Lady Wathin, and refused.” 

“ But at my house — under our auspices ! ” 

Diana glanced at the clock. “ Nowhere.” 

“Is it not — pardon me — a wife’s duty, Mrs. Warwick, 
at least to listen ? ” 

“Lady Wathin, I have listened to you.” 

“ In the case of his extreme generosity so putting it, for 
the present, Mrs. Warwick, that he asks only to be heard 
personally by his wife ! It may preclude so much.” 

Diana felt a hot wind across her skin. 

She smiled and said: “Let me thank you for bringing 
to an end a mission that must have been unpleasant to 
you.” 

“ But you will meditate on it, Mrs. Warwick, will you not ? 
Give me that assurance ! ” 

“ I shall not forget it,” said Diana. 

Again the ladies touched fingers, with an interchange of 


226 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


the social grimace of cordiality. A few words of com- 
passion for. poor Lady Dunstane's invalided state covered 
Lady Wathin’s retreat. 

She left, it struck her ruffled sentiments, an icy libertine, 
whom any husband caring for his dignity and comfort was 
well rid of ; and if only she could have contrived allusively 
to bring in the name of Mr. Percy Dacier, just to show these 
arrant coquettes, or worse, that they were not quite so 
privileged to pursue their intrigues obscurely as they 
imagined, it would have soothed her exasperation. 

She left a woman the prey of panic. 

Diana thought of Emma and Redworth, and of their 
foolish interposition to save her character and keep her 
bound. She might now have been free! The struggle 
with her manacles reduced her to a state of rebelliousness, 
from which issued vivid illuminations of the one means of 
certain escape : an abhorrent hissing cavern, that led to a 
place named Liberty, her refuge, but a hectic place. 

Unable to write, hating the house which held her a fixed 
mark for these attacks, she had an idea of flying straight 
to her beloved Lugano lake, and there hiding, abandoning 
her friends, casting off the slave’s name she bore, and 
living free in spirit. She went so far as to reckon the cost 
of a small household there, and justify the violent step 
by an exposition of retrenchment upon her large London 
expenditure. She had but to say farewell to Emma, no 
other tie to cut! One morning on the Salvatore heights 
would wash her clear of the webs defacing and entangling 
her. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

INDICATES A SOUL PREPARED FOR DESPERATION 

The month was August, four days before the closing of 
Parliament, and Diana fancied it good for Arthur Rhodes 
to run down with her to Copsley. He came to her invita- 
tion joyfully, reminding her of Lady Dunstane’s wish to 
hear some chapters of The Cantatriue, and the MS. was 


4 SOUL PREPARED FOR DESPERATION 227 

packed. They started, taking rail and fly, and winding up 
the distance on foot. August is the month of sober matur- 
ity and majestic foliage, songless, but a crowned and royal- 
robed queenly month ; and the youngster’s appreciation of 
the homely scenery refreshed Diana ; his delight in being 
with her was also pleasant. She had no wish to exchange 
him for another ; and that was a strengthening thought. 

At Copsley the arrival of their luggage had prepared the 
welcome. Warm though it was, Diana perceived a change 
in Emma, an unwonted reserve, a doubtfulness of her eyes, 
in spite of tenderness ; and thus thrown back on herself, 
thinking that if she had followed her own counsel (as she 
called her impulse) in old days, there would have been no 
such present misery, she at once, and unconsciously, as^ 
sumed a guarded look. Based on her knowledge of her 
honest footing, it was a little defiant. Secretly in her 
bosom it was sharpened to a slight hostility by the knowl- 
edge that her mind had been straying. The guilt and the 
innocence combined to clothe her in mail, the innocence 
being positive, the guilt so vapoury. But she was armed 
only if necessary, and there was no requirement for armour. 
Emma did not question at all. She saw the alteration in 
her Tony : she was too full of the tragic apprehensiveness 
overmastering her to speak of trifles. She had never 
confided to Tony the exact nature and the growth of 
her malady, thinking it mortal, and fearing to alarm her 
dearest. 

A portion of the manuscript was read out by Arthur 
Rhodes in the evening; the remainder next morning. 
Redworth perceptibly was the model of the English hero ; 
and as to his person, no friend could complain of the sketch ; 
his clear-eyed heartiness, manliness, wholesomeness — a 
word of Lady Dunstane’s regarding him, — and his hand- 
some braced figure, were well painted. Emma forgave the 
insistence on a certain bluntness of the nose, in consideration 
of the fond limning of his honest and expressive eyes, and 
the “ light on his temples,” which they had noticed together. 

She could not so easily forgive the realistic picture of the 
man : an exaggeration, she thought, of small foibles, that 
even if they existed, should not have been stressed. The 
turn fr»r “ calculating ” was shown up ridiculously; Mr. 


228 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Cuthbert Dering was calculating in his impassioned moods 
as well as in his cold. His head was a long division of 
ciphers. He had statistics for spectacles, and beheld the 
world through them, and the mistress he worshipped. 

“I see,” said Emma, during a pause; “he is a Saxon. 
You still affect to have the race en grippe, Tony.” 

“ I give him every credit for what he is,” Diana replied. 
“ I admire the finer qualities of the race as much as anyone* 
You want to have them presented to you in enamel, 
Emmy.” 

But the worst was an indication that the mania for cal- 
culating in and out of season would lead to the catastrophe 
destructive of his happiness. Emma could not bear that. 
Without asking herself whether it could be possible that 
Tony knew the secret, or whether she would have laid it 
bare, her sympathy for Redworth revolted at the exposure. 
She was chilled. She let it pass; she merely said: “I 
like the writing.” 

Diana understood that her story was condemned. 

She put on her robes of philosophy to cloak discourage- 
ment. “ I am glad the writing pleases you.” 

“ The characters are as true as life ! ” cried Arthur 
Rhodes. “ The Cantatrice drinking porter from the pewter 
at the slips after harrowing the hearts of her audience, is 
dearer to me than if she had tottered to a sofa declining 
sustenance ; and because her creatrix has infused such 
blood of life into her that you accept naturally whatever 
she does. She was exhausted, and required the porter, like 
a labourer in the cornfield.” 

Emma looked at him, and perceived the poet swamped 
by the admirer. Taken in conjunction with Mr. Cuthbert 
Dering’s frenzy for calculating, she disliked the incident of 
the porter and the pewter. 

“ While the Cantatrice swallowed her draught, I suppose 
Mr. Dering counted the cost ? ” she said. 

“ It really might be hinted,” said Diana. 

The discussion closed with the accustomed pro and con 
upon the wart of Cromwell’s nose, Realism rejoicing in it, 
Idealism objecting. 

Arthur Rhodes was bidden to stretch his legs on a walk 
along the heights in the afternoon, and Emma was further 


A SOUL PREPARED FOR DESPERATION 


229 


vexed by hearing Tony complain of Redworth’s treatment 
of the lad, whom he would not assist to any of the snug 
little posts he was notoriously able to dispense. 

“ He has talked of Mr. Rhodes to me,” said Emma. 
“He thinks the profession of literature a delusion, and 
doubts the wisdom of having poets for clerks.” 

“John-Bullish!” Diana exclaimed. “He speaks con- 
temptuously of the poor boy.” 

“ Only inasmuch as the foolishness of the young man in 
throwing up the Law provokes his practical mind to speak.” 

“ He might take my word for the ‘ young man’s ’ ability. 
I want him to have the means of living, that he may write. 
He has genius.” 

“ He may have it. I like him, and have said so. If he 
were to go back to his lawstool, I have no doubt that Red- 
worth would manage to help him.” 

“And make a worthy ancient Braddock of a youth of 
splendid promise ! Have I sketched him too Saxon ? ” 

“ It is the lens, and not the tribe, Tony.”- 

The Cantatrice was not alluded to any more; but 
Emma’s disapproval blocked the current of composition, 
already subject to chokings in the brain of the author. 
Diana stayed three days at Copsley, one longer than she 
had intended, so that Arthur Rhodes might have his fill of 
country air. 

“ I would keep him, but I should be no companion for 
him,” Emma said. 

“ I suspect the gallant squire is only to be satisfied by 
landing me safely,” said Diana, and that small remark 
grated, though Emma saw the simple meaning. When 
they parted, she kissed her Tony many times. Tears were 
in her eyes. It seemed to Diana that she was anxious to 
make amends for the fit of alienation, and she was kissed 
in return warmly, quite forgiven, notwithstanding the 
deadly blank she had caused in the imagination of the 
writer for pay, distracted by the squabbles of Debit and 
Credit. 

Diana chatted spiritedly to young Rhodes on their drive 
to the train. She was profoundly discouraged by Emma’s 
disapproval of her work. It wanted but that one drop to 
make a recurrence to the work impossible. There it must 


230 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


lie ! And what of the aspects of her household ? — Per* 
haps, after all, the Redworths of the world are right, and 
Literature as a profession is a delusive pursuit. She did 
not assent to it without hostility to the world’s Redworths. 
— “ They have no sensitiveness, we have too much. We 
are made of bubbles that a wind will burst, and as the 
wind is always blowing, your practical Redworths have 
their crow of us.” 

She suggested advice to Arthur Rhodes upon the pru- 
dence of his resuming the yoke of the Law. 

He laughed at such a notion, saying that he had some 
expectations of money to come. 

“ But I fear,” said he, “ that Lady Dunstane is very very 
ill. She begged me to keep her informed of your address.” 

Diana told him he was one of those who should know it 
whithersoever she went. She spoke impulsively, her sen- 
timents of friendliness for the youth being temporarily 
brightened by the strangeness of Emma’s conduct in de- 
puting it to him to fulfil a duty she had never omitted. 
“ What can she think I am going to do ! ” 

On her table at home lay a letter from Mr. Warwick. 
She read it hastily in the presence of Arthur Rhodes, 
having at a glance at the handwriting anticipated the pro- 
posal it contained and the official phrasing. 

Her gallant squire was invited to dine with her that 
evening, costume* excused. 

They conversed of Literature as a profession, of poets 
dead and living, of politics, which he abhorred and shied 
at, and of his prospects. He wrote many rejected pages, 
enjoyed an income of eighty pounds per annum, and eked 
out a subsistence upon the modest sum his pen procured 
him ; a sum extremely insignificant ; but great Nature was 
his own, the Avorld was tributary to him, the future his 
bejewelled and expectant bride. Diana envied his youth- 
fulness. Nothing is more enviable, nothing richer to the 
mind, than the aspect of a cheerful poverty. How much 
nobler it was, contrasted with Redworth’s amassing of 
wealth! lyujcr 

When alone, she went to her bedroom and tried to write, 
tried to sleep. Mr. Warwick’s letter was looked at. It 
Seemed to indicate a threat j but for the moment it did nof 


A SOUL PREPARED FOR DESPERATION 231 

disturb her so much as the review of her moral prostration. 
She wrote some lines to her lawyers, quoting one of Mr. 
Warwick’s sentences. That done, his letter was dismissed. 
Her intolerable languor became alternately a defeating 
drowsiness and a fever. She succeeded in the effort to 
smother the absolute cause : it was not suffered to show a 
front ; at the cost of her knowledge of a practised self- 
deception. “ I wonder whether the world is as bad as a 
certain class of writers tell us ! ” she sighed in weariness, 
and mused on their soundings and probings of poor hu- 
manity, which the world accepts for the very bottom-truth 
if their dredge brings up sheer refuse of the abominable. 
The world imagines those to be at our nature’s depths who 
are impudent enough to expose its muddy shallows. She 
was in the mood for such a kind of writing : she could 
have started on it at once but that the theme was wanting ; 
and it may count on popularity, a great repute for penetra- 
tion. It is true of its kind, though the dredging of nature 
is the miry form of art. When it flourishes we may be 
assured we have been overenamelling the higher forms. 
She felt, and shuddered to feel, that she could draw 
from dark stores. Hitherto in her works it had been 
a triumph of the good. They revealed a gaping deficiency 
of the subtle insight she now possessed “Exhibit hu- 
manity as it is, wallowing, sensual, wicked, behind the 
mask,” a voice called to her ; she was allured by the con- 
templation of the wide-mouthed old dragon Ego, whose 
portrait, decently painted, establishes an instant touch of 
exchange between author and public, the latter detected 
and confessing. $Text to the pantomime of Humour and 
Pathos, a cynical surgical knife at the human bosom 
seems the surest talisman for this agreeable exchange ; and 
she could cut. She gave herself a taste of her powers. 
She cut at herself mercilessly, and had to bandage the 
wound in a hurry to keep in life. 

Metaphors were her refuge. Metaphorically she could 
allow her mind to distinguish the struggle she was under- 
going, sinking under it. The banished of Eden had to put 
on metaphors, and the common use of them has helped largely 
to civilize us. The sluggish in intellect detest them, but our 
civilization is not much indebted to that • major faction* 


232 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Especially are they needed by the pedestailed woman in her 
conflict with the natural. Diana saw herself through the 
haze she conjured up. “Am I worse than other women ? ” 
was a piercing twi-thought. Worse, would be hideous iso- 
lation. The not worse, abased her sex. She could afford 
to say that the world was bad : not that women were. 

Sinking deeper, an anguish of humiliation smote her to a 
sense of drowning. For what if the poetic ecstasy on her 
Salvatore heights had not been of origin divine ? had sprung 
from other than spiritual founts ? had sprung from the red- 
dened sources she was compelled to conceal ? Could it be ? 
She would not believe it. But there was matter to clip her 
wings, quench her light, in the doubt. 

She fell asleep like the wrecked flung ashore. 

Danvers entered her room at an early hour for London to 
inform her that Mr. Percy Dacier was below, and begged 
permission to wait. 

Diana gave orders for breakfast to be proposed to him. 
She lay staring at the wall until it became too visibly a re- 
flection of her mind. 


CHAPTEE XXV 

ONCE MORE THE CROSSWAYS AND A CHANGE OF TURNINGS 

The suspicion of his having come to impart the news of 
his proximate marriage ultimately endowed her with sover- 
eign calmness. She had need to think it, and she did. Tea 
was brought to her while she dressed ; she descended the 
stairs revolving phrases ' of happy congratulation and the 
world’s ordinary epigrams upon the marriage-tie, neatly 
mixed. 

They read in one another’s faces a different meaning from 
the empty words of excuse and welcome. Dacier’s expressed 
the buckling of a strong set pui pose ; but, grieved by the 
look of her eyes, he wasted a moment to say : “ You have 
not slept. You have heard ? . • 

“ What ? ” said she, trying to speculate ; and that was a 
sufficient answer. 


A CHANGE OF TURNINGS 233 

"1 hadn’t the courage to call last night; I passed the 
windows. Give me your hand, I beg.” 

She gave her hand in wonderment, and more wonder- 
ingly felt it squeezed. Her heart began the hammer- 
thump. She spoke an unintelligible something ; saw herself 
melting away to utter weakness — pride, reserve, simple 
prudence, all going ; crumbled ruins where had stood a for- 
tress imposing to men. Was it love ? Her heart thumped 
shiveringly. 

He kept her hand, indifferent to the gentle tension. 

“ This is the point : I cannot live without you. I have 
gone on . . . Who was here last night ? Forgive me.” 

“ You know Arthur Rhodes.” 

“ I saw him leave the door at eleven. Why do you torture 
me ? There ’s no time to lose now. You will be claimed. 
Come, and let us two cut the knot. It is the best thing in 
the world for me — the only thing. Be brave ! I have your 
hand. Give it for good, and for heaven’s sake don’t play 
the sex. Be yourself. Dear soul of a woman ! I never saw 
the soul in one but in you. I have waited : nothing but the 
dread of losing you sets me speaking now. And for you to 
be sacrificed a second time to that — ! Oh, no ! You know 
you can trust me. On my honour, I take breath from you. 
You are my better in everything — guide, goddess, dearest 
heart ! Trust me ; make me master of your fate.” 

“ But my friend ! ” the murmur hung in her throat. He 
was marvellously transformed ; he allowed no space for the 
arts of defence and evasion. 

“ I wish I had the trick of courting. There ’s not time ; 
and I’m a simpleton at the game. We can start this even- 
ing. Once away, we leave it to them to settle the matter, 
and then you are free, and mine to the death.” 

“ But speak, speak ! What is it ? ” Diana said. 

“ That if we delay, I ’in in danger of losing you 
altogether.” 

Her eyes lightened: “ You mean that you have heard he 
has determined ? . . . ” 

“ There’s a process of the law. But stop it. Just this 
one step, and it ends. Whether intended or not, it hangs 
over you, and you will be perpetually tormented. Why 
waste your whole youth ? — and mine as well ! For I am 


234 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

bound to you as much as if we had stood at the altar — where 
we will stand together the instant you are free.” 

“But where have you heard ?’” . . . 

“ From an intimate friend. I will tell you — sufficiently 
intimate — from Lady Wathin. Nothing of a friend, but I 
see this woman at times. She chose to speak of it to 
me — it does n’t matter why. She is in his confidence, and 
pitched me a whimpering tale. Let those people chatter. 
But it ’s exactly for those people that you are hanging in 
chains, all your youth shrivelling. Let them shout their 
worst ! It ’s the bark of a day ; and you won’t hear it ; 
half a year, and it will be over, and I shall bring you 
back — the husband of the noblest bride in Christendom l 
You don’t mistrust me ? ” 

“ It is not that,” said she. “ But now drop my hand. I 
am imprisoned.” 

“It’s asking too much. I’ve lost you too many times. 
I have the hand and I keep it. I take nothing but the 
hand. It’s the hand I want. I give you mine. I love 
you. Now I know what love is! — and the word carries 
nothing of its weight. Tell me you do not doubt my 
honour.” 

" Not at all. But be rational. I must think, and I can- 
not while you keep my hand.” 

He kissed it. “ I keep my own against the world.” 

A cry of rebuke swelled to her lips at his conqueror’s 
tone. It was not uttered, for directness was in his char- 
acter and his wooing loyal — save for bitter circumstances, 
delicious to hear; and so narrow was the ring he had 
wound about her senses, that her loathing of the circum- 
stances pushed her to acknowledge within her bell of a 
heart her love for him. 

He was luckless enough to say : “ Diana ! ” 

It rang horridly of her husband. She drew her hand to 
loosen it, with repulsing brows. “ Not that name ! ” 

Dacier was too full of his honest advocacy of the 
passionate lover to take a rebuff. There lay his uncon- 
scious mastery, where the common arts of attack would 
have tripped him with a quick-witted woman, and where a 
man of passion, not allowing her to succumb in dignity, 
would have alarmed her to the breaking loose from him. 


A. CHANGE OF TURNINGS 


235 


“ Lady Dunstane calls you Tony.” 

“ She is my dearest and oldest friend.” 

“ You and I don’t count by years. You are the dearest 
to me on earth, Tony ! ” 

She debated as to forbidding that name. 

The moment’s pause wrapped her in a mental hurricane* 
out of which she came with a heart stopped, her olive 
cheeks ashen-hued. She had seen that the step was 
possible. 

“ Oh ! Percy, Percy, are we mad ? ” 

“Not mad. We take what is ours. Tell me, have I 
ever, ever disrespected you ? You were sacred to me ; and 
you are, though now the change has come. Look back on it 
— it is time lost, years that are dust. But look forward, 
and you cannot imagine our separation. What I propose is 
plain sense for us two. Since ftovio, I have been at your 
feet. Have I not some just claim for recompense ? Tell 
me ! Tony ! ” 

The sweetness of the secret name, the privileged name, 
in his mouth stole through her blood, melting resistance. 

She had consented. The swarthy flaming of her face 
avowed it even more than the surrender of her hand. He 
gained much by claiming little : he respected her, gave her 
no touches of fright and shame ; and it was her glory to 
fall with pride. An attempt at a caress would have 
awakened her view of the whitherward : but she was 
treated as a sovereign lady rationally advised. 

“ Is it since Bovio, Percy ? ” 

“ Since the morning when you refused me one little 
flower.” 

“ If I had given it, you might have been saved I ” 

“ I fancy I was doomed from the beginning.” 

“ I was worth a thought ? ” 

“ Worth a life ! worth ten thousand ! ” 

“You have reckoned it all like a sane man: — family, 
position, the world, the scandal ? ” 

“All. I have long known that you were the mate for 
me. You have to weather/ a gale, Tony. It won’t last. 
My dearest ! it won’t last many months. I regret the trial 
for you, but I shall be with you, burning for the day to 
reinstate you and show you the queen you are.” 


236 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ Yes, we two can have no covert dealings, Percy/ 5 said 
Diana. They would be hateful — baseness! Rejecting 
any baseness, it seemed to her that she stood in some 
brightness. The light was of a lurid sort. She called on 
her heart to glory in it as the light of tried love, the love 
that defied the world. Her heart rose. She and he would 
at a single step give proof of their love for one another : 
and this kingdom of love — how different from her recent 
craven languors ! — this kingdom awaited her, was hers for 
ohe word ; and beset with the oceans of enemies, it was 
unassailable. If only they were true to the love they 
vowed, no human force could subvert it : and she doubted 
him as little as of herself. This new kingdom of love, 
never entered by her, acclaiming her, was well-nigh un- 
imaginable, in spite of the many hooded messengers it had 
despatched to her of late. She could hardly believe that it 
had come. 

“ But see me as I am,” she said ; she faltered it through 
her direct gaze on him. 

“ With chains to strike off? Certainly; it is done/’ he 
replied. 

“ Rather heavier than those of the slave-market ! I am 
the deadest of burdens. It means that your enemies, per- 
sonal — if you have any, and political — you have numbers, 
will raise a cry. . . . Realize it. You may still be my 
friend. I forgive the bit of wildness.” 

She provoked a renewed kissing of her hand ; for mag- 
nanimity in love is an overflowing danger; and when he 
said : “ The burden you have to bear outweighs mine out of 
all comparison. What is it to a man — a public man or 
not! The woman is always the victim. That’s why I 
have held myself in so long : ” — her strung frame softened. 
She half yielded to the tug on her arm. 

“ Is there no talking for us without foolishness ? ” she 
murmured. The foolishness had wafted her to sea, far 
from sight of land. ‘Row sit, and speak soberly. Discuss 
the matter. — Yes, my hand, but I must have my wits. 
Leave me free to use them till we choose our path. Let it 
be the brains between us, as far as it can. You ask me to 
join my fate to yours. It signifies a sharp battle for you, 
dear friend ; perhaps the blighting of the most promising 


A CHANGE OF TURNINGS 


237 


life in England. One question is, can I countervail the 
burden I shall be, by such help to you as I can afford T 
Burden, is no word — I rake up a buried fever. I have 
partially lived it down, and instantly I am covered with 
spots. The old false charges and this plain offence make a 
monster of me.” 

“ And meanwhile you are at the disposal of the man who 
falsely charged you and armed the world against you/’ said 
Dacier. 

“ I can fly. The world is wide.” 

“ Time slips. Your youth is wasted. If you escape the 
man, he will have triumphed in keeping you from me. And 
I thirst for you ; I look to you for aid and counsel ; I want 
my mate. You have not to be told how you inspire me ? 
I am really less than half myself without you. If I am to 
do anything in the world, it must be with your aid, you 
beside me. Our hands are joined : one leap ! Do you not 
see that after . . . well, it cannot be friendship. It im- 
poses rather more on me than I can bear. You are not the 
woman to trifle ; nor I, Tony, the man for it with a woman 
like you. You are my spring of wisdom. You interdict 
me altogether — can you ? — or we unite our fates, like 
these hands now. Try to get yours away ! ” 

Her effort ended in a pressure. Resistance, nay, to hesi- 
tate at the joining of her life with his after her submission 
to what was a scorching fire in memory, though it was less 
than an embrace, accused her of worse than foolishness. 

“Well, then,” said she, “wait three days. Deliberate. 
Oh ! try to know yourself, for your clear reason to guide 
you. Let us be something better than the crowd abusing 
us, not simple creatures of impulse — as we choose to call 
the animal. What if we had to confess that we took to 
our heels the moment the idea struck us ! Three days. 
We may then pretend to a philosophical resolve. Then 
come to me : or write to me.” 

“ How long is it since the old Rovio morning, Tony ? ” 

“ An age.” 

“ Date my deliberations from that day.” 

The thought of hers having to be dated possibly from an 
earlier day, robbed her of her summit of feminine isolation, 
and she trembled, chilled and flushed; she lost ail anchorage. 


238 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ So it must be to-morrow,” said he, reading her closely, 
“ not later. Better at once. But women are not to be 
hurried.” 

“ Oh ! don’t class me, Percy, pray ! I think of you, not 
of myself.” 

“ You suppose that in a day or two I might vary ? ” 

She fixed her eyes on him, expressing certainty of his 
unalterable steadfastness. The look allured. It changed : 
her head shook. She held away and said : “ No, leave me; 
leave me, dear, dear friend. Percy, my dearest! I will not 
‘ play the sex.’ I am yours if ... if it is your wish. It 
may as well be to-morrow. Here I am useless ; I cannot 
write, not screw a thought from my head. I dread that 
‘ process of the Law’ a second time. To-morrow, if it 
must be. But no impulses. Fortune is blind ; she may be 
kind to us. The blindness of Fortune is her one merit, 
and fools accuse her of it, and they profit by it ! I fear we 
all of us have our turn of folly : we throw the stake for 
good luck. I hope my sin is not very great. I know my 
position is desperate. I feel a culprit. But I am sure I 
have courage, perhaps brains to help. At any rate, I may 
say this : I bring no burden to my lover that he does not 
know of.” 

Dacier pressed her hand. “ Money we shall have enough. 
My uncle has left me fairly supplied.” 

“ What would he think ? ” said Diana, half in a glimpse 
of meditation. 

“ Think me the luckiest of the breeched. I fancy I hear 
him thanking you for ‘ making a man ’ of me.” 

She blushed. Some such phrase might have been spoken 
by Lord Dannisburgh. 

“ I have but a poor sum of money,” she said. “ I may 
be able to write abroad. Here I cannot — if I am to be 
persecuted.” 

“ You shall write, with a new pen ! ” said Dacier. “You 
shall live, my darling Tony. You have been held too long 
in this miserable suspension, neither maid nor wife, neither 
woman nor stockfish. Ah ! shameful. But we ’ll right it. 
The step, for us, is the most reasonable that could be con- 
sidered. You shake your head. But the circumstances 
make it so. Courage, and we come to happiness ! And 


A CHANGE OF TURNINGS 


239 


that, for you and me, means work. Look at the case of 
Lord and Lady Dulac. It ’s identical, except that she is no 
match beside you : and I do not compare her antecedents 
with yours. But she braved the leap, and forced the world 
to swallow it, and now, you see, she ’s perfectly honoured. 
I know a place on a peak of the Maritime Alps, exquisite 
in summer, cool, perfectly solitary, no English, snow round 
us, pastures at our feet, and the Mediterranean below. 
There ! my Tony. To-morrow night we start. You will 
meet me — shall I call here ? — well, then at the railway 
station, the South-Eastern, for Paris: say, twenty minutes 
to eight. I have your pledge ? You. will come ? ” 

She sighed it, then said it firmly, to be worthy of him. 
Kind Fortune, peeping under the edge of her bandaged 
eyes, appeared willing to bestow the beginning of happiness 
upon one who thought she had a claim to a small taste of it 
before she died. It seemed distinguishingly done, to give 
a bite of happiness to the starving ! 

“ I fancied when you were announced that you came for 
congratulations upon your approaching marriage, Percy.” 

“I shall expect to hear them from you to-morrow even- 
ing at the station, dear Tony,” said he. 

The time was again stated, the pledge repeated. He 
forbore entreaties for privileges, and won her gratitude. 

They named once more the place of meeting and the 
hour : more significant to them than phrases of intensest 
love and passion. Pressing hands sharply for pledge of 
good faith, they sundered. 

She still had him in her eyes when he had gone. Her 
old world lay shattered ; her new world was up without a 
dawn, with but one figure, the sun of it, to light the swing- 
ing strangeness. 

Was ever man more marvellously transformed ? or woman 
more wildly swept from earth into the clouds ? So she 
mused in the hum of her tempest of heart and brain, for- 
getful of the years and the conditions preparing both of 
them for this explosion. 

! She had much to do : the arrangements to dismiss her 
servants, write to house-agents and her lawyer, and write 
fully to Emma, write the enigmatic farewell to the Es- 
quarts and Lady Pennon/ Mary Paynham, Arthur Rhodes, 


240 


DIANA OF THE CEOSSWAYS 


Whitmonby (stanch in friendship, but requiring friendly 
touches), Henry Wilmers, and Redworth. He was reserved 
to the last, for very enigmatical adieux : he would hear the 
whole story from Emma ; must be left to think as he liked. 

The vague letters were excellently well composed : she 
was going abroad, and knew not when she would return ; 
bade her friends think the best they could of her in the 
meantime. Whitmonby was favoured with an anecdote, to 
be read as an apologue by the light of subsequent events. 
But the letter to Emma tasked Diana. Intending to write 
fully, her pen committed the briefest sentences : the tender- 
ness she felt for Emma wakening her heart to sing that she 
was loved, loved, and knew love at last ; and Emma’s fore- 
seen antagonism to the love and the step it involved ren- 
dered her pleadings in exculpation a stammered confession 
of guiltiness, ignominious, unworthy of the pride she felt 
in her lover. “ I am like a cartridge rammed into a gun, to 
be discharged at a certain hour to-morrow,” she wrote ; and 
she sealed a letter so frigid that she could not decide to 
post it. All day she imagined hearing a distant cannonade. 
The light of the day following was not like earthly light. 
Danvers assured her there was no fog in London. 

“ London is insupportable ; I am going to Paris, and shall 
send for you in a week or two,” said Diana. 

“ Allow me to say, ma’am, that you had better take me 
with you,” said Danvers. 

“Are you afraid of travelling by yourself, you foolish 
creature ? ” 

“ No, ma’am, but I don’t like any hands to undress and 
dress my mistress but my own.” 

“ I have not lost the art,” said Diana, chafing for a magic 
spell to extinguish the woman, to whom, immediately pity- 
ing her, she said : “You are a good faithful soul. I think 
you have never kissed me. Kiss me on the forehead.” 

Danvers put her lips to her mistress’s forehead, and was 
asked : “ You still consider yourself attached to my for- 
tunes ? ” 

“ I do, ma’am, at home or abroad ; and if you will take 
me with you . . .” 

“ Not for a week or so.” 

“ I shall not be in the way' ma’am.” 


A DISAPPOINTED LOVER 


241 


They played at shutting eyes. The petition of Danvers 
tvas declined ; which taught her the more ; and she was 
emboldened to say: " Wherever my mistress goes, she 
ought to have her attendant with her.” There was no 
answer to it but the refusal. 

The hours crumbled slowly, each with a blow at the 
passages of retreat. Diana thought of herself as another 
person, whom she observed, not counselling her, because it 
was a creature visibly pushed by the Fates. In her own 
mind she could not perceive a stone of solidity anywhere, 
nor a face that had the appearance of our common life. 
She heard the cannon at intervals. The things she said set 
Danvers laughing, and she wondered at the woman’s mingled 
mirth and stiffness. Five o’clock struck. Her letters were 
sent to the post. Her boxes were piled from stairs to door. 
She read the labels, for her good-bye to the hated name of 
Warwick: — Why ever adopted! Emma might well have 
questioned why ! Women are guilty of such unreasoning 
acts ! But this was the close to that chapter. The hour of 
six went by. Between six and seven came a sound of 
knocker and bell at the street-door. Danvers rushed into 
the sitting-room to announce that it was Mr. Redworth. 
Before a word could be mustered, Redworth was in the 
room. He said : “ You must come with me at once l” 


CHAPTER XXYI 

IN WHICH A DISAPPOINTED LOVER RECEIVES A MULTITUDE 
OF LESSONS 

Dacier waited at the station, a good figure of a sentinel 
over his luggage and a spy for one among the inpouring 
passengers. Tickets had been confidently taken, the private 
division of the carriages happily secured. On board the 
boat she would be veiled. Landed on French soil, they 
threw off disguises, breasted the facts. And those ? They 
lightened. He smarted with his eagerness. 


242 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


He had come well in advance of the appointed time, foi 
, he would not have had her hang about there one minute 
alone. 

Strange as this adventure was to a man of prominent 
station before the world, and electrical as the turning-point 
of a destiny that he was given to weigh deliberately and 
far-sightedly, Diana’s image strung him to the pitch of it. 
He looked nowhere but ahead, like an archer putting hand 
for his arrow. 

Presently he compared his watch and the terminus clock. 
She should now be arriving. He went out to meet her and 
do service. Many cabs and carriages were peered into, 
couples inspected, ladies and their maids, wives and their 
husbands — an August exodus to the Continent. Nowhere 
the starry she. But he had a fund of patience. She was 
now in some block of the streets. He was sure of her, sure 
of her courage. Tony and recreancy could not go together. 
• Now that he called her Tony, she was his close comrade, 
known ; the name was a caress and a promise, breathing of 
her, as the rose of sweetest earth. He counted it to be a 
month ere his family would have wind of the altered posi- 
tion of his affairs, possibly a year to the day of his making 
the dear woman his own in the eyes of the world. She was 
dear past computation, womanly, yet quite unlike the 
womanish women, unlike the semi-males, courteously called 
dashing, unlike the sentimental. His present passion for 
her lineaments declared her surpassingly beautiful, though 
his critical taste was rather for the white statue that gave 
no warmth. She had brains and ardour, she had grace 
and sweetness, a playful petulancy enlivening our atmos- 
phere, and withal a refinement, a distinction, not to be 
classed ; and justly might she dislike the being classed. 
Her humour was a perennial refreshment, a running well, 
that caught all the colours of light ; her wit studded the 
heavens of the recollection of her. In his heart he felt that 
it was a stepping down for the brilliant woman to give him 
her hand ; a condescension and an act of valour. She who 
always led or prompted when they conversed, had now in 
her generosity abandoned the lead" and herself to him, and 
she deserved his utmost honourings 

But where was she ? He looked at his watch, looked 


A DISAPPOINTED LOVER 243 

at the clock. They said the same: ten minutes to the 
moment of the train’s departure. 

A man may still afford to dwell on the charms and merits 
of his heart’s mistress while he has ten minutes to spare. 
The dropping minutes, however, detract one by one from 
her individuality and threaten to sink her in her sex 
entirely. It is the inexorable clock that says she is as other 
women. Dacier began to chafe. He was unaccustomed to 
the part he was performing : — and if she failed him ? She 
would not. She would be late, though. No, she was in 
time ! His long legs crossed the platform to overtake a tall 
lady veiled and dressed in black. He lifted his hat ; he 
heard an alarmed little cry and retired. The clock said, 
live minutes: a secret chiromancy in addition indicating 
on its face the word Fool. An odd word to be cast at him ! 
It rocked the icy pillar of pride in the background of his 
nature. Certainly standing solus at the hour of eight p.m., 
he would stand for a fool. Hitherto he had never allowed 
a woman the chance to posture him in that character. He 
strode out, returned, scanned every lady’s shape, and for a 
distraction watched the veiled lady whom he had accosted. 
Her figure suggested pleasant features. Either she was 
disappointed, or she was an adept. At the shutting of the 
gates she glided through, not without a fearful look around 
and at him. She disappeared. Dacier shrugged. His 
novel assimilation to the rat-rabble of amatory intriguers 
tapped him on the shoulder unpleasantly. A luckless mem- 
ber of the fraternity too ! The bell, the clock and the train 
gave him his title. “ And I was ready to fling down every- 
thing for the woman!” The trial of a superb London 
gentleman’s resources in the love-passion could not have 
been much keener. No sign of her. 

He who stands ready to defy the world, and is baffled by 
the absence of his fair assistant, is the fool doubled, so 
completely the fool that he heads the universal shout : he 
does not spare himself. The sole consolation he has is to 
revile the sex. Women ! women ! Whom have they not 
made a fool of ! His uncle as much as any — and professing 
to know them. Him also ! the man proud of escaping their 
wiles. “ For this woman ! ”... he went on saying after 
he had lost sight of her in her sex’s trickeries. The nearest 


244 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


he could get to her was to conceive that the arrant coquette 
was now laughing at her utter subjugation and befooling of 
the man popularly supposed invincible. If it were known 
of him ! The idea of his being a puppet fixed for derision 
was madly distempering. He had only to ask the affirma- 
tive of Constance Asper to-morrow ! A vision of his deter- 
mining to do it, somewhat comforted him. 

Dacier walked up and down the platform, passing his 
pile of luggage, solitary and eloquent on the barrow. 
Never in his life having been made to look a fool, he 
felt the red heat of the thing, as a man who has not 
blessedly become acquainted with the swish in boyhood finds 
his untempered blood turn to poison at a blow ; he cannot 
healthily take a licking. But then it had been so splendid 
an insanity when he urged Diana to fly with him. Any- 
one but a woman would have appreciated the sacrifice. 

His luggage had to be removed. He dropped his porter 
a lordly fee and drove home. From that astonished soli- 
tude he strolled to his Club. Curiosity mastering the 
wrath it was mixed with, he left his Club and crossed the 
park southward in the direction of Diana’s house, abusing 
her for her inveterate attachment to the regions of West- 
minster. There she used to receive Lord Dannisburgh ; 
innocently, no doubt — assuredly quite innocently ; and 
her husband had quitted the district. Still it was rather 
childish for a woman to be always haunting the seats of 
Parliament. Her disposition to imagine that she was 
able to inspire statesmen came in for a share of ridicule ; 
for when we know ourselves to be ridiculous, a retort in 
kind, unjust upon consideration, is balm. The woman 
dragged him down to the level of common men ; that 
was the peculiar injury, and it swept her undistinguished 
into the stream of women. In appearance, as he had 
proved to the fellows at his Club, he was perfectly self- 
possessed, mentally distracted and bitter, hating himself 
for it, snapping at the cause of it. She had not merely 
disappointed, she had slashed his high conceit of himself, 
curbed him at the first animal dash forward, and he 
champed the bit with the fury of a thwarted racer. 

Twice he passed her house. Of course no light was 
shown at her windows. They were scanned malignly. 


A DISAPPOINTED LOVER 


245 


He held it due to her to call and inquire whether there 
was any truth in the report of Mrs. Warwick’s illness. 
Mrs. Warwick ! She meant to keep the name. 

A maid-servant came to the door with a candle in her 
hand revealing red eyelids. She was not aware that her 
mistress was unwell. Her mistress had left home some 
time after six o’clock with a gentleman. She was unable 
to tell him the gentleman’s name. William, the footman, 
had opened the door to him. Her mistress’s maid Mrs. 
Danvers had gone to the Play — with William. She 
thought that Mrs. Danvers might know who the gentle- 
man was. The girl’s eyelids blinked, and she turned 
aside. Dacier consoled her with a piece of gold, saying 
he would come and see Mrs. Danvers in the morning. 

His wrath was partially quieted by the new speculations 
offered up to it. He could not conjure a suspicion of 
treachery in Diana Warwick; and a treachery so foully 
cynical ! She had gone with a gentleman. He guessed on 
all sides ; he struck at walls, as in complete obscurity. 

The mystery of her conduct troubling his wits for the 
many hours was explained by Danvers. With a sympathy 
that she was at pains to show, she informed him that her 
mistress was not at all unwell, and related of how Mr. Red- 
worth had arrived just when her mistress was on the point 
of starting for Paris and the Continent ; because poor Lady 
Dunstane was this very day to undergo an operation under 
the surgeons at Copsley, and she did not wish her mistress 
to be present, but Mr. Redworth thought her mistress 
ought to be there, and he had gone down thinking she was 
there, and then came back in hot haste to fetch her, and 
was just in time, as it happened, by two or three minutes. 

Dacier rewarded the sympathetic woman for her intelli- 
gence, which appeared to him to have shot so far as to 
require a bribe. Gratitude to the person soothing his 
unwontedly ruffled temper was the cause of the indiscre- 
tion in the amount he gave. 

It appeared to him that he ought to proceed to Copsley 
for tidings of Lady Dunstane. Thither he sped by the 
handy railway and a timely train. He reached the park- 
gates at three in the afternoon, telling his flyman to wait. 
As he advanced by short cuts over the grass, he studied 


246 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


the look of the rows of windows. She was within, and 
strangely to his clouded senses she was no longer Tony, 
no longer the deceptive woman he could in justice abuse. 
He and she, so close to union, were divided. A hand 
resembling the palpable interposition of Tate had swept 
them asunder. Having the poorest right — not any — to 
reproach her, he was disarmed, he felt himself a miserable 
intruder; he summoned his passion to excuse him, and 
gained some unsatisfied repose of mind by contemplating 
its devoted sincerity ; which roused an effort to feel for 
the sufferer — Diana Warwick’s friend. With the pair of 
surgeons named, the most eminent of their day, in attend- 
ance, the case must be serious. To vindicate the breaker 
of her pledge, his present plight likewise assured him of 
that, and nearing the house he adopted instinctively the 
funeral step and mood, just sensible of a novel small- 
ness. For the fortifying testimony of his passion had to 
be put aside, he was obliged to disavow it for a simpler 
motive if he applied at the door. He stressed the motive, 
produced the sentiment, and passed thus naturally into 
hypocrisy, as lovers precipitated by their blood among the 
crises of human conditions are often forced to do. He had 
come to inquire after Lady Dunstane. He remembered 
that it had struck him as a duty, on hearing of her danger- 
ous illness. 

The door opened before he touched the bell. Sir Lukin 
knocked against him and stared. 

“ Ah ! — who? — you?” he said, and took him by the 
arm and pressed him on along the gravel. “Dacier, are 
you ? Eedworth ’s in there. Come on a step, come ! It ’s 
the time for us to pray. Good God! There’s mercy for 
sinners. If ever there was a man ! . . . But, oh, good God ! 
she ’s in their hands this minute. My saint is under the 
knife.” 

Dacier was hurried forward by a powerful hand. 

“ They say it lasts about five minutes, four and a half — or 
more! My God ! When they turned me out of her room,* 
she smiled to keep me calm. She said, ‘ Dear husband ’ : 
— the veriest wretch and brutallest husband ever poor 
woman . . . and a saint ! a saint on earth ! Emmy ! v 
Tears burst from him. 


A DISAPPOINTED LOVER 


247 


He pulled forth his watch and asked Dacier for the time. 

“ A minute *s gone in a minute. It ’s three minutes and 
a half. Come faster. They ’re at their work I It ’s life or 
death. I’ve had death about me. But for a woman ! and 
your wife ! and that brave soul ] She bears it so. Women 
are the bravest creatures afloat. If they make her shriek, 
it’ll be only if she thinks I ’m out of hearing. No : I see 
her. She bears it ! — They may n’t have begun yet. It 
may all be over ! Come into the wood. I must pray. I 
must go on my knees.” 

Two or three steps in the wood, at the mossed roots of 
a beech, he fell kneeling, muttering, exclaiming. 

The tempest of penitence closed with a blind look at his 
watch, which he left dangling. He had to talk to drug his 
thoughts. 

“ And mind you,” said he, when he had rejoined Dacier 
and was pushing his arm again, rounding beneath the trees 
to a view of the house, “ for a man steeped in damnable 
iniquity ! She bears it all for me, because I begged her, 
for the chance of her living. It’s my doing — this knife! 
Macpherson swears there is a chance. Thomson backs 
him. But they’re at her, cutting! . . . The pain must be 
awful — the mere pain ! The gentlest creature ever drew 
breath ! And women fear blood — and her own ! — And 
a head ! She ought to have married the best man alive, not 
a — ! I can’t remember her once complaining of me — 
not once. A common donkey compared to her ! All I can' 
do is to pray. And she knows the beast I am, and has for- 
given me. There is n’t a blessed text of Scripture that 
does n’t cry out in praise of her. And they cut and 
hack ! . . . ” He dropped his head. The vehement big 
man heaved, shuddering. His lips worked fast. 

“ She is not alone with them, unsupported ? ” said 
Dacier. 

Sir Lukin moaned for relief. He caught his watch 
swinging and stared at it. “ What a good fellow you were 
to come ! Now *s the time to know your friends. There ’s 
Diana Warwick, true as steel. Redworth came on her tip- 
toe for the Continent ; he had only to mention . . . Emmy 
wanted to spare her. She would not have sent — wanted to 
spare her the sight. I offered to stand by . . . Chased me 


248 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


out. Diana Warwick’s there: — worth fifty of met 
Dacier, I ’ve had my sword-blade tried by Indian horsemen, 
and I know what true as steel means. She ’s there. And 
I know she shrinks from the sight of blood. My oath on 
it, she won’t quiver a muscle! Next to my wife, you may 
take my word for it, Dacier, Diana Warwick is the pick of 
living women. I could prove it. They go together. I 
could prove it over and over. She ’s the loyallest woman 
anywhere. Her one error was that marriage of hers, and 
how she ever pitched herself into it, none of us can guess.” 
After a while, he said : “ Look at your watch.” 

“ Nearly twenty minutes gone.” 

“ Are they afraid to send out word ? It ’s that window ! ” 
He covered his eyes, and muttered, sighed. He became 
abruptly composed in appearance. “The worst of a black 
sheep like me is, I ’m such an infernal sinner, that Provi- 
dence ! . . . But both surgeons gave me their word of hon- 
our that there was a chance. A chance ! But it ’s the end 
of me if Emmy — Good God ! no ! the knife ’s enough ; 
don’t let her be killed ! It would be murder. Here am I 
talking ! I ought to be praying. I should have sent for 
the parson to help me ; I can’t get the proper words — bel- 
low like a rascal trooper strung up for the cat. It must be 
twenty-five minutes now. Who ’s alive now ! ” 

Dacier thought of the Persian Queen crying for news of 
the slaughtered, with her mind on her lord and husband : 
“Who is not dead?” Diana exalted poets, and here was 
an example of the truth of one to nature, and of the poor 
husband’s depth of feeling. They said not the same thing, 
But it was the same cry de profundis. 

He saw Bedworth coming at a quick pace. 

Redworth raised his hand. Sir Lukin stopped. * He ’s 
waving ! ” 

“ It ’s good,” said Dacier. 

“ Speak ! are you sure ? ” 

“I judge by the look.” 

Redworth stepped unfalteringly. 

“ It ’s over, all well,” he said. He brushed his forehead 
and looked sharply cheerful. 

“My dear fellow! my dear fellow!” Sir Lukin grasped 
his hand. “ It ’s more than I deserve. Over ? She has 


A DISAPPOINTED LOVEB 249 

borne it! She would have gone to heaven and left 
me — ! Is she safe ? ” 

“ Doing well.” 

“ Have you seen the surgeons? ” 

“Mrs. Warwick.” 

“ What did she say ? ” 

“ A nod of the head.” 

“ You saw her ? ” 

“She came to the stairs.” 

“ Diana Warwick never lies. She would n’t lie, not with 
a nod ! They ’ve saved Emmy — do you think ? ” 

“ It looks well.” 

“ My girl has passed the worst of it ? ” 

“ That ’s over.” 

Sir Lukin gazed glassily. The necessity of his agony 
was to lean to the belief, at a beckoning, that Providence 
pardoned him, in tenderness for what would have been his 
toss. He realized it, and experienced a sudden calm : tes- 
tifying to the positive pardon. 

“ Now, look here, you two fellows, listen half a moment,” 
he addressed Redworth and Dacier ; “ I ’ve been the biggest 
scoundrel of a husband unhung, and married to a saint; 
and if she ’s only saved to me, I ’ll swear to serve her faith- 
fully, or may a thunderbolt knock me to perdition! and 
xhank God for his justice! Prayers are answered, mind 
fon, though a fellow may be as black as a sweep. Take a 
warning from me. I ’ve had my lesson.” 

Dacier soon after talked of going. The hope of seeing 
Diana had abandoned him, the desire was almost extinct. 

Sir Lukin could not let him go. He yearned to preach 
to him or anyone from his personal text of the sinner 
honourably remorseful on account of and notwithstanding 
the forgiveness of Providence, and he implored Dacier and 
fcedworth by turns to be careful when they married of how 
they behaved to the sainted women their wives ; never to 
lend ear to the devil nor to believe, as he had done, that 
there is no such thing as a devil, for he had been the vic- 
tim of him, and he knew. The devil, he loudly proclaimed, 
has a multiplicity of lures, k and none more deadly than 
when he baits with a petticoat. He had been hooked, and 
had found the devil in person. He begged them urgently 


250 


DIANA OF THE CROSS WAY'S 


to keep his example in memory. By following this and 
that wildfire he had stuck himself in a bog — a common re- 
sult with those who would not see the devil at work upon 
them ; and it required his dear suffering saint to be at 
death’s doors, cut to pieces and gasping, to open his eyes. 
But, thank heaven, they were opened at last ! Now he saw 
the beast he was: a filthy beast! unworthy of tying his 
wife’s shoestring. No confessions could expose to them 
the beast he was. But let them not fancy there was no 
such thing as an active Devil about the world. 

Redworth divined that the simply sensational man abased 
himself before Providence and heaped his gratitude on the 
awful Power in order to render it difficult for the promise 
of the safety of his wife to be withdrawn. 

He said : “ There is good hope ; ” and drew an admoni- 
tion upon himself. 

“Ah! my dear good Redworth,” Sir Lukin sighed from 
his elevation of out-spoken penitence: “you will see as 1 
do some day. It is the devil, think as you like of it. 
When you have pulled down all the Institutions of the 
Country, what do you expect but ruins ? That Radicalism 
of yours has its day. You have to go through a wrestle 
like mine to understand it. You say, the day is fine, let’s 
have our game. Old England pays for it ! Then you ’ll 
find how you love the old land of your birth — the noblest 
ever called a nation ! — with your Corn Law Repeals ! — eh, 
Dacier ? — You ’ll own it was the devil tempted you. 1 
hear you apologizing. Pray God, it may n’t be too late ! ” 

He looked up at the windows. “ She may be sinking! ” 

“Have no fears,” Redworth said ; “Mrs. Warwick would 
send for you.” 

“ She would. Diana Warwick would be sure to send. 
Next to my wife, Diana Warwick ’s . . . she ’d send, never 
fear. I dread that room. I ’d rather go through a regiment 
of sabres — though it’s over now. And Diana Warwick 
stood it. The worst is over, you told me. By heaven i 
women are wonderful creatures. But she has n’t a peer for 
courage. I could trust her — most extraordinary thing, that 
marriage of hers ! — not a soul has ever been abie to explain 
it : — trust her to the death.” 

Redworth left them, and Sir Lukin ejaculated on the 


A DISAPPOINTED LOVER 


25 i 


merits of Diana Warwick to Dacier. He laughed scornfully : 
“ And that ’s the woman the world attacks for want of 
virtue ! Why, a fellow has n’t a chance with her, not a 
chance. She comes out in blazing armour if you unmask a 
battery. I don’t know how it might be if she were in love 
with a fellow. I doubt her thinking men worth the trouble. 
I never met the man. But if sh e were to take fire, Troy ’d 
be nothing to it. I wonder whether we might go in : 1 
dread the house.” 

Dacier spoke of departing. 

“No, no, wait,” Sir Lukin begged him. “I was talking 
about women. They are the devil — or he makes most use 
of them : and you must learn to see the cloven foot under 
their petticoats, if you ’re to escape them. There’s no pro- 
tection in being in love with your wife ; I married for love ; 
I am, I always have been, in love with her ; and I went to 
the deuce; The music struck up and away I waltzed. A 
woman like Diana Warwick might keep a fellow straight, 
because she ’s all round you ; she ’s man and woman in 
brains ; and legged like a deer, and breasted like a swan, 
and a regular sheaf of arrows in her eyes. Dark women — 
ah ! But she has a contempt for us, you know. That ’s the 
secret of her. — Bedworth ’s at the door. Bad ? Is it bad ? 
I never was particularly fond of that house — hated it. 1 
love it now for Emmy’s sake. I could n’t live in another — 
though I should be haunted. Bather her ghost than nothing 
— though I ’m an infernal coward about the next world. 
But if you Te right with religion you need n’t fear. What 
I can’t comprehend in Bedworth is his Badicalism, and 
getting richer and richer.” 

“ It ’s not a vow of poverty,” said Dacier. 

“ He ’ll find they don’t coalesce, or his children will. 
Once the masses are uppermost ! It ’s a bad day, Dacier, 
when we’ve no more gentlemen in the land. Emmy backs 
him, so I hold my tongue. To-morrow ’s a Sunday. I wish 
you were staying here ; I ’d take you to church with me — * 
we shirk it when we haven’t a care. It couldn’t do you 
harm. I’ve heard capital sermons. I’ve always had the 
good habit of going to church, Dacier. Now ’s the time for 
remembering them. Ah, my dear fellow, I ’m not a parson. 
It would have been better for me if I had been.” 


252 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


And for you too ! his look added plainly. He longed to 
preach; he was impelled to chatter. 

Redworth reported the patient perfectly quiet, breathing 
calmly. 

“ Laudanum ? ” asked Sir Lukin. “ Now there ’s a poison 
we *ve got to bless ! And we set up in our wisdom for know- 
ing what is good for us ! ” 

He had talked his hearers into a stupefied assent to any- 
thing he uttered. 

“Mrs. Warwick would like to see you in two or three 
minutes ; she will come down,” Redworth said to Dacier. 

“That looks well, eh? That looks bravely,” Sir Lukin 
cried. “Diana Warwick would n’t leave the room without 
a certainty. 1 dread the look of those men ; I shall have 
to shake their hands ! And so I do, with all my heart : 
only — But God bless them I But we must go in, if 
she ’s coming down.” 

They entered the house, and sat in the drawing-room, 
where Sir Lukin took up from the table one of his wife’s 
Latin books, a Persius, bearing her marginal notes. He 
dropped his head on it, with sobs. 

The voice of Diana recalled him to the present. She 
•counselled him to control himself ; in that case he might for 
one moment go to the chamber-door and assure himself by 
the silence that his wife was resting. She brought permis- 
sion from the surgeons and doctor, on his promise to be 
still. 

Redworth supported Sir Lukin tottering out. 

Dacier had risen. He was petrified by Diana’s face, and 
thought of her as whirled from him in a storm, bearing the 
marks of it. Her underlip hung for short breaths ; the big 
drops of her recent anguish still gathered on her brows ; 
her eyes were tearless, lustreless ; she looked ancient in 
youth, and distant by a century, like a tall woman of the 
vaults, issuing white-ringed, not of our light. 

She shut her mouth for strength to speak to him. 

He said : “ You are not ill ? You are strong ? ” 

“ I ? Oh, strong. I will sit. I cannot be absent longer 
than two minutes. The trial of her strength is to come. 
If it were courage, we might be sure. The day is fine ? ” 

“ A perfect August da)*” 


A DISAPPOINTED LOVER 


253 


“ I held her through it. I am thankful to heaven it was 
no other hand than mine. She wished to spare me. She 
was glad of her Tony when the time came. I thought I was 
a coward — I could have changed with her to save her ; I 
am a strong woman, fit to submit to that work. I should 
not have borne it as she did. She expected to sink under 
it. All her dispositions were made for death — bequests to 
servants and to ... to friends : every secret liking they 
had, thought of ! ” 

Diana clenched her hands. 

“ I hope ! ” Dacier said. 

“You shall hear regularly. Call at Sir William’s house 
to-morrow. He sleeps here to-night. The suspense must 
last for days. It is a question of vital power to bear the 
shock. She has a mind so like a flying spirit that, just 
before the moment, she made Mr. Lanyan Thomson smile 
by quoting some saying of her Tony’s.” 

“ Try by-and-by to recollect it,” said Dacier. 

“ And you were with that poor man ! How did he pass 
the terrible time ? I pitied him.” 

“ He suffered ; he prayed.” 

“ It was the best he could do. Mr. Redworth was as he 
always is at the trial, a pillar. Happy the friend who 
knows him for one ! He never thinks of himself in a crisis. 
He is sheer strength to comfort and aid. They will drive 
you to the station with Mr. Thomson. He returns to re- 
lieve Sir William to-morrow. I have learnt to admire the 
men of the knife ! No profession equals theirs in self- 
command and beneficence. Dr. Bridgenorth is permanent 
here.” 

“ I have a fly, and go back immediately,” said Dacier. 

“She shall hear of your coming. Adieu.” 

Diana gave him her hand. It was gently pressed. 

A wonderment at the utter change of circumstances took 
Dacier passingly at the sight of her vanishing figure. 

He left the house, feeling he dared have no personal 
wishes. It had ceased to be the lover’s hypocrisy with him. 

The crisis of mortal peril in that house enveloped its 
inmates, and so wrought in him as to enshroud the stripped 
outcrying husband, of whom he had no clear recollection, 
save of the man’s agony. The two women, striving against 


254 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


death, devoted in friendship, were the sole living images 
he brought away ; they were a new vision of the world and 
our life. 

He hoped with Diana, bled with her. She rose above 
him high, beyond his transient human claims. He envied 
Redworth the common friendly right to be near her. In 
reflection, long after, her simplicity of speech, washed pure 
of the blood-emotions, for token of her great nature, dur- 
ing those two minutes of their sitting together, was dearer, 
sweeter to the lover than if she had shown by touch or 
word that a faint allusion to their severance was in her 
mind ; and this despite a certain vacancy it created. 

He received formal information of Lady Dunstane’s 
progress to convalescence. By degrees the simply official 
tone of Diana’s letters combined with the ceasing of them 
and the absence of her personal charm to make a gentle- 
man not remarkable for violence in the passion so calmly 
reasonable as to think the dangerous presence best avoided 
for a time. Subject to fits of the passion, he certainly was, 
but his position in the world was a counselling spouse, 
jealous of his good name. He did not regret his proposal 
to take the leap; he would not have regretted it if taken. 
On the safe side of the abyss, however, it wore a gruesome 
look to his cool blood. 


CHAPTER XXYII 

CONTAINS MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION 

Among the various letters inundating Sir Lukin Dun- 
stane upon the report of the triumph of surgical skill 
achieved by Sir William Macpherson and Mr. Lanyan 
Thomson, was one from Lady Wathin, dated Adlands, 
an estate of Mr. Quintin Manx’s in Warwickshire, peti- 
tioning for the shortest line of reassurance as to the con- 
dition of her dear cousin, and an intimation of the period 
when it might be deemed possible for a relative to call and 
offer her sincere congratulations: a letter deserving a per* 


MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION 255 


sonal reply, one would suppose. She received the following, 
in a succinct female hand corresponding to its terseness; 
every t righteously crossed, every i punctiliously dotted, as 
she remarked to Constance Asper, to whom the communi- 
cation was transferred for perusal : — 

“Dear Lady Wathin, — Lady Dunstane is gaining 
strength. The measure of her pulse indicates favourably. 
She shall be informed in good time of your solicitude for 
her recovery. The day cannot yet be named for visits of 
any kind. You will receive information as soon as the 
house is open. 

“ I have undertaken the task of correspondence, and beg 
you to believe me, 

“ Very truly yours, 

“D. A. Warwick.’’ 

Miss Asper speculated on the hand-writing of her rival. 
She obtained permission to keep the letter, with the inten- 
tion of transmitting it per post to an advertising interpreter 
of character in caligraphy. 

Such was the character of the fair young heiress, ex- 
hibited by her performances much more patently than the 
run of a quill would reveal it. 

She said, “It is rather a pretty hand, I think.” 

“ Mrs. Warwick is a practised writer,” said Lady Wathin. 
“Writing is her profession, if she has any. She goes to 
nurse my cousin. Her husband says she is an excellent 
nurse. He says what he can for her. But you must be 
in the last extremity, or she is ice. His appeal to her has 
been totally disregarded. Until he drops down in the 
street, as his doctor expects him to do some day, she will 
continue her course; and even then ...” 

An adventuress desiring her freedom! Lady Wathin 
looked. She was too devout a woman to say what she 
thought. But she knew the world to be very wicked. Of 
Mrs. Warwick, her opinion was formed. She would not 
have charged the individual creature with a criminal 
design; all she did was to stuff the person her virtue 
abhorred with the wickedness of the world, and that a 
common process in antipathy. 


250 


DIAtf A OF THE CROSSWAYS 


She sympathized, moreover, with the beautiful devoted- 
ness of the wealthy heiress to her ideal of man. It had 
led her to make the acquaintance of old Lady Dacier, at 
the house in town, where Constance Asper had hrst met 
Percy; Mrs. Grafton Winstanley’s house, representing 
neutral territory or debateable land for the occasional 
intercourse of the upper class and the climbing in the 
professions or in commerce; Mrs. Grafton Winstanley be- 
ing on the edge of aristocracy by birth, her husband, like 
Mr. Quintin Manx, a lord of fleets. Old Lady Lacier’s 
bluntness in speaking of her grandson would have shocked 
Lady Wathin as much as it astonished, had she been less 
of an ardent absorber of aristocratic manners. Percy was 
plainly called a donkey, for hanging off and on with a 
handsome girl of such expectations as Miss Asper. “But 
what you can’t do with a horse, you can’t hope to do with 
a donkey.” She added that she had come for the pur- 
pose of seeing the heiress, of whose points of person she 
delivered a judgement critically appreciative as a horse- 
fancier’s on the racing turf. “ If a girl like that holds to 
it, she ’s pretty sure to get him at last. It ’s no use to 
pull his neck down to the water.” 

Lady Wathin delicately alluded to rumours of an 
entanglement, an admiration he had, ahem. 

“A married woman,” the veteran nodded. “I thought 
that was off ? She must be a clever intriguer to keep him 
so long.” 

“She is undoubtedly clever,” said Lady Wathin, and it 
was mumbled in her hearing: “The woman seems to have 
a taste for our family.” 

They agreed that they could see nothing to be done. 
The young lady must wither, Mrs. Warwick have her day. 
The veteran confided her experienced why to Lady Wathin : 
“ All the tales you tell of a woman of that sort are sharp 
sauce to the palates of men.” 

They might be, to the men of the dreadful gilded idle 
class ! 

Mrs. Warwick’s day appeared indefinitely prolonged, 
judging by Percy Dacier’s behaviour to Miss Asper. 
Lady Wathin watched them narrowly when she had the 
chance, a little ashamed of her sex, or indignant rather at 


MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION 257 

his display of courtliness in exchange for her open betrayal 
of her preference. It was almost to be wished that she 
would punish him by sacrificing herself to one of her many 
brilliant proposals of marriage. But such are women ! — 
precisely because of his holding back he tightened the 
cord attaching him to her tenacious heart. This was the 
truth.. For the rest, he was gracefully courteous; an ob- 
server could perceive the charm he exercised. He talked 
with a ready affability, latterly with greater social ease; 
evidently not acting the indifferent conqueror, or so con- 
summately acting it as to mask the air. And yet he was 
ambitious, and he was not rich. Notoriously was he 
ambitious, and with wealth to back him, a great entertain- 
ing house, troops of adherents, he would gather influence, 
be propelled to leadership. The vexation of a constant 
itch to speak to him on the subject, and the recognition 
that he knew it all as well as she, tormented Lady Wathin. 
He gave her comforting news of her dear cousin in the 
Winter. 

“You have heard from Mrs. Warwick?” she said. 

He replied, “I had the latest from Mr. Bedworth.” 

“Mrs. Warwick has relinquished her post ? ” 

“ When she does , you may be sure that Lady Hunstane 
is perfectly re-established.” 

“She is an excellent nurse.” 

“The best, I believe.” 

“It is a good quality in sickness.” 

“Proof of good all through.” 

“Her husband might have the advantage of -it. His 
state is really pathetic. If she has feeling, and could 
only be made aware, she might perhaps be persuaded to 
pass from the friendly to the wifely duty.” 

Mr. Dacier bent his head to listen, and he bowed. 

He was fast in the toils ; and though we have assurance 
that evil cannot triumph in perpetuity, the aspect of it 
throning provokes a kind of despair. How strange if 
ultimately the lawyers once busy about the uncle were to 
take up the case of the nephew, and this time reverse the 
issue, by proving it! For poor Mr. Warwick was emphatic 
on the question of his honour. It excited him danger- 
ously. He was long-suffering, but with the slightest clu6 

17 


258 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


terrible. The unknotting of the entanglement might thus 
happen : — and Constance Asper would welcome her hero 
still. 

Meanwhile there was actually nothing to be done: a 
deplorable absence of motive villainy; apparently an 
absence of the beneficent Power directing events to their 
proper termination. Lady Wathin heard of her cousin’s 
having been removed to Cowes in May, for light Solent 
and Channel voyages on board Lord Esquart’s yacht. She 
heard also of heavy failures and convulsions in the City 
of London, quite unconscious that the Fates, or agents of 
the Providence she invoked to precipitate the catastrophe, 
were then beginning cavernously their performance of 
the part of villain in Diana’s history. 

Diana and Emma enjoyed happy quiet sailings under 
May breezes on the many-coloured South-western waters, 
heart in heart again; the physical weakness of the one, 
the moral weakness of the other, creating that mutual 
dependency which makes friendship a pulsating tie. 
Diana’s confession had come of her letter to Emma. 
When the latter was able to examine her correspondence, 
Diana brought her the heap for perusal, her own sealed 
scribble, throbbing with all the fatal might-have-been, 
under her eyes. She could have concealed and destroyed 
it. She sat beside her friend, awaiting her turn, hearing 
her say at the superscription : “ Your writing, Tony ? ” and 
she nodded. She was asked: “Shall I read it?” She 
answered: “Read.” They were soon locked in an embrace. 
Emma had no perception of coldness through those brief 
dry lines; her thought was of the matter. 

“The danger is over now?” she said. 

“Yes, that danger is over now.” 

“You have weathered it?” 

“ I love him.” 

Emma dropped a heavy sigh in pity of her, remotely in 
compassion for Redworth, the loving and unbeloved. She 
was too humane and wise of our nature to chide her Tony 
for having her sex’s heart. She had charity to bestow on 
women; in defence of them against men and the world, it 
was a charity armed with the weapons of battle. The wife 
madly stripped before the world by a jealous husband, 


MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION 259 

and left chained to the rock, her youth wasting, her blood 
arrested, her sensibilities chilled and assailing her under 
their multitudinous disguises, and for whom the world is 
merciless, called forth Emma’s tenderest commiseration; 
and that wife being Tony, and stricken with the curse of 
love, in other circumstances the blessing, Emma bled for 
her. 

. “But nothing desperate ?” she said. 

“No; you have saved me.” 

“I would knock at death’s doors again, and pass them, 
to be sure of that.” 

“ Kiss me ; you may be sure. I would not put my lips 
to your cheek if there were danger of my faltering.” 

“But you love him.” 

“I do: and because I love him I will not let him be 
fettered to me.” 

“You will see him.” 

“Do not imagine that his persuasions undermined your 
Tony. I am subject to panics.” 

“Was it your husband ? ” 

“I had a visit from Lady Wathin. She knows him. 
She came as peacemaker. She managed to hint at his 
authority. Then came a letter from him — of supplica- 
tion, interpenetrated with the hint : a suffused atmosphere. 
Upon that, unexpected by me, my — let me call him so 
once, forgive me ! — lover came. Oh ! he loves me, or did 
then. Percy ! He had been told that I should be claimed. 
I felt myself the creature I am — a wreck of marriage. 
But I fancied I could serve him : — I saw golden. My 
vanity was the chief traitor. Cowardice of course played 
a part. In few things that we do, where self is concerned, 
will cowardice not be found. And the hallucination 
colours it to seem a lovely heroism. That was the second 
time Mr. Redworth arrived. I am always at crossways 
and he rescues me; on this occasion unknowingly.” 

“ There ’s a divinity ”... said Emma. “ When I think 
of it I perceive that Patience is our beneficent fairy god- 
mother, who brings us our harvest in the long result.” 

“My dear, does she bring us our labourers’ rations, to 
sustain us for the day? ” said Diana. 

“Poor fare, but enough.” 


260 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“I fear I was born godmotherless.” 

“You have stores of patience, Tony; only now and then 
fits of desperation.” 

“My nature’s frailty, the gap in it: we will give it no 
fine names — they cover our pitfalls. I am open to be 
carried on a tide of unreasonableness when the coward 
cries out. But I can say, dear, that after one rescue, a 
similar temptation is unlikely to master me. I do not 
subscribe to the world’s decrees for love of the monster, 
though I am beginning to understand the dues of alle- 
giance. We have ceased to write letters. You may have 
faith in me.” 

“ I have, with my whole soul,” said Emma. 

So the confession closed; and in the present instance 
there were not any forgotten chambers to be unlocked and 
ransacked for addenda confessions. 

The subjects discoursed of by the two endeared the hours 
to them. They were aware that the English of the period 
would have laughed a couple of women to scorn for ven- 
turing on them, and they were not a little hostile in con- 
sequence, and shot their epigrams profusely, applauding 
the keener that appeared to score the giant bulk of their 
intolerant enemy, who holds the day, but not the morrow. 
Us too he holds for the day, to punish us if we have tem- 
poral cravings. He scatters his gifts to the abject; toss- 
ing to us rebels bare dog-biscuit. But the life of the 
spirit is beyond his region; we have our morrow in his 
day when we crave nought of him. Diana and Emma 
delighted to discover that they were each the rebel of their 
earlier and less experienced years, each a member of the 
malcontent minor faction, the salt of earth, to whom their 
salt must serve for nourishment, as they admitted, relish* 
ing it determinedly, not without gratification. 

Sir Lukin was busy upon his estate in Scotland. They 
summoned young Arthur Rhodes to the island, that he 
might have a taste of the new scenes. Diana was always 
wishing for his instruction and refreshment; and Red- 
w'orth came to spend a Saturday and Sunday with them, 
and showed his disgust of the idle boy, as usual, at the 
same time consulting them on the topic of furniture foi 
the Berkshire mansion he had recently bought, rathe? 


MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION 261 

vaunting the Spanish pictures his commissioner in Madrid 
was transmitting. The pair of rebels, vexed by his treat- 
ment of the respectful junior, took him for an incarnation 
of their enemy, and pecked and worried the man aston- 
ishingly. He submitted to it like the placable giant. 
Yes, he was a Liberal, and furnishing and decorating 
the house in the stability of which he trusted. Why not? 
We must accept the world as it is, try to improve it by 
degrees. — Not so: humanity will not wait for you, the 
victims are shrieking beneath the bricks of your enor- 
mous edifice, behind the canvas of your pictures. “But 
you may really say that luxurious yachting is an odd kind 
of insurgency, ” avowed Diana. “It’s the tangle we 
are in.” 

“It’s the coat we have to wear; and why fret at it for 
being comfortable? ” 

“I don’t half enough, when I think of my shivering 
neighbours.” 

“Money is of course a rough test of virtue,” said Red- 
worth. “ We have no other general test.” 

Money ! The ladies proclaimed it a mere material test; 
Diana, gazing on sunny sea, with an especial disdain. 
And name us your sort of virtue. There is more virtue 
in poverty. He denied that. Inflexibly British, he de- 
clared money, and also the art of getting money, to be 
hereditary virtues, deserving of their reward. The reward 
a superior wealth and its fruits? Yes, the power to enjoy 
and spread enjoyment: and let idleness envy both! He 
abused idleness, and by implication the dilettante insur- 
gency fostering it. However, he was compensatingly 
heterodox in his view of the Law’s persecution of women; 
their pertinacious harpings on the theme had brought him 
to that; and in consideration of the fact, as they looked 
from yacht to shore, of their being rebels participating 
largely in the pleasures of the tyrant’s court, they allowed 
him to silence them, and forgave him. 

Thoughts upon money and idleness were in confusion 
with Diana. She had a household to support in London, 
and she was not working; she could not touch The 
Cantatrice while Emma was near. Possibly, she again 
ejaculated, the Redworths of the world were right: the 


262 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


fruitful labours were with the mattock and hoe, or the 
mind directing them. It was a crushing invasion of mate- 
rialism, so she proposed a sail to the coast of France, and 
thither they flew, touching Cherbourg, Alderney, Sark, 
Guernsey, and sighting the low Brittany rocks. Memo- 
rable days to Arthur Rhodes. He saw perpetually the 
one golden centre in new scenes. He heard her voice, he 
treasured her sayings; her gestures, her play of lip and 
eyelid, her lift of head, lightest movements, were imprinted 
on him, surely as the heavens are mirrored in the quiet 
seas, firmly and richly as earth answers to the sprinkled 
grain. For he was blissfully athirst, untroubled by a 
hope. She gave him more than she knew of: a present 
that kept its beating heart into the future; a height of 
sky, a belief in nobility, permanent through manhood 
down to age. She was his foam-born Goddess of those 
leaping waters; differently hued, crescented, a different 
influence. He had a happy week, and it charmed Diana 
to hear him tell her so. In spite of Redworth, she had 
faith in the fruit-bearing powers of a time of simple hap- 
piness, and shared the youth’s in reflecting it. Only the 
happiness must be simple, that of the glass to the lovely 
face: no straining of arms to retain, no heaving of the 
bosom in vacancy. 

His poverty and capacity for pure enjoyment led her to 
think of him almost clingingly when hard news reached 
her from the quaint old City of London, which despises 
poverty and authorcraft and all mean adventurers, and 
bows to the lordly merchant, the mighty financier, Red- 
worth’s incarnation of the virtues. Happy days on board 
the yacht Clarissa ! Diana had to recall them with effort. 
They who sow their money for a promising high percentage 
have built their habitations on the sides of the most erup- 
tive mountain in Europe. HCtna supplies more certain 
harvests, wrecks fewer vineyards and peaceful dwellings. 
The greed of gain is our volcano. Her wonder leapt up 
at the slight inducement she had received to embark her 
money in this Company: a South- American mine, collapsed 
almost within hearing of the trumpets of prospectus, after 
two punctual payments of the half-yearly interest. A Mrs. 
Ferdinand Cherson, an elder sister of the pretty Mrs. 


MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION 263 

Fryar-Gunnett, had talked to her of the cost of things one 
afternoon at Lady Singleby’s garden-party, and spoken of 
the City as the place to help to swell an income, if only 
you have an acquaintance with some of the chief City 
men. The great mine was named, and the rush for allot- 
ments. She knew a couple of the Directors. They vowed 
to her that ten per cent, was a trifle; the fortune to be 
expected out of the mine was already clearly estimable at 
forties and fifties. For their part they anticipated cent, 
per cent. Mrs. Cherson said she wanted money, and had 
therefore invested in the mine. It seemed so consequent, 
the cost of things being enormous ! She and her sister 
Mrs. Fryar-Gunnett owned husbands who did their bid- 
ding, because of their having the brains, it might be under- 
stood. Thus five thousand pounds invested would speedily 
bring five thousand pounds per annum. Diana had often 
dreamed of the City of London as the seat of magic; and 
taking the City’s contempt for authorcraft and the intan- 
gible as, from its point of view, justly founded, she had 
mixed her dream strangely with an ancient notion of the 
City’s probity. Her broker’s shaking head did not damp 
her ardour for shares to the full amount of her ability to 
purchase. She remembered her satisfaction at the allot- 
ment; the golden castle shot up from this fountain mine. 
She had a frenzy for mines and fished in some English 
with smaller sums. “I am now a miner,” she had ex- 
claimed, between dismay- at her audacity and the pride of 
it. Why had she not consulted Redworth? He would 
peremptorily have stopped the frenzy in its first intoxi- 
cating effervescence. She, like Mrs. Cherson, like all 
women who have plunged upon the cost of things, wanted 
money. She naturally went to the mine. Address him 
for counsel in the person of dupe, she could not; shame 
was a barrier. Could she tell him that the prattle of a 
woman, spendthrift as Mrs. Cherson, had induced her to 
risk her money? Latterly the reports of Mrs. Fryar- 
Gunnett were not of the flavour to make association of 
their names agreeable to his hearing. 

She had to sit down in the buzz of her self-reproaches 
and amazement at the behaviour of that reputable City, 
shrug, and recommence the labour of her pen. Material 


264 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


misfortune had this one advantage; it kept her from spec* 
ulative thoughts of her lover, and the meaning of his 
absence and silence. 

Diana’s perusal of the incomplete Cantatrice was done 
with the cold critical eye interpreting for the public. She 
was forced to write on nevertheless, and exactly in the 
ruts of the foregoing matter. It propelled her. No longer 
perversely, of necessity she wrote her best, convinced that 
$he work was doomed to unpopularity, resolved that it 
should be at least a victory in style. A fit of angry cyni- 
cism now and then set her composing phrases as baits for 
the critics to quote, condemnatory of the attractiveness of 
the work. Her mood was bad. In addition, she found 
Whitmonby cool; he complained of the coolness of her 
letter of adieu; complained of her leaving London so long. 
How could she expect to be his Queen of the London Salon 
if she lost touch of the topics? He made no other allu- 
sion. They were soon on amicable terms, at the expense 
of flattering arts that she had not hitherto practised. But 
Westlake revealed unimagined marvels of the odd corners 
of the masculine bosom. He was the man of her circle 
the neatest in epigram, the widest of survey, an Oriental 
traveller, a distinguished writer, and if not personally 
bewitching, remarkably a gentleman of the world. He 
was wounded ; he said as much. It came to this : admit- 
ting that he had no claims, he declared it to be unbearable 
for him to see another preferred. The happier was un- 
mentioned, and Diana scraped his wound by rallying him. 
He repeated that he asked only to stand on equal terms 
with the others; her preference of one was past his toler- 
ance. She told him that since leaving Lady Dunstane she 
had seen but Whitmonby, Wilraers, and him. He smiled 
sarcastically, saying he had never had a letter from her, 
except the formal one of invitation. 

“Powers of blarney, have you forsaken a daughter of 
Erin? ” cried Diana. “ Here is a friend who has a crav- 
ing for you, and I talk sense to him. I have written tc 
none of my set since I last left London.” 

She pacified him by doses of cajolery new to her tongue. 
She liked him, abhorred the thought of losing any of her 
friends, so the cajoling sentences ran until Westlake be' 


MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION 265 

trayed an inflammable composition, and had to be put out, 
and smoked sullenly. Her resources were tried in restor- 
ing him to reason. The months of absence from London 
appeared to have transformed her world. Tonans was 
moderate. The great editor rebuked her for her prolonged 
absence from London, not so much because it discrowned 
her as Queen of the Salon, but candidly for its rendering 
her service less to him. Everything she knew of men and 
affairs was to him stale. 

“ How do you get to the secrets ? ” she asked. 

“By sticking to the centre of them,” he said. 

“ But how do you manage to be in advance and act the 
prophet? ” 

“Because I will have them at any price, and that is 
known.” 

She hinted at the peccant City Company. 

“I think I have checked the mining mania, as I 
did the railway,” said he; “and so far it was a public 
service. There ’s no checking of maniacs.” 

She took her whipping within and without. “ On an- 
other occasion I shall apply to you, Mr. Tonans.” 

“ Ah, there was a time when you could have been a 
treasure to me,” he rejoined ; alluding of course to the 
Dannisburgh days. 

In dejection, as she mused on those days, and on her 
foolish ambition to have a London house where her light 
might burn, she advised herself, with Bed worth’s voice, to 
quit the house, arrest expenditure, and try for happiness 
by burning and shining in the spirit : devoting herself, a? 
Arthur Bhodes did, purely to literature. It became almost 
a decision. 

Percy she had still neither written to nor heard from, 
and she dared not hope to meet him. She fancied a wish 
to have tidings of his marriage: it would be peace, if in 
desolation. Now that she had confessed and given her 
pledge to Emma, she had so far broken with him as to 
render the holding him chained a cruelty, and his reserve 
whispered of a rational acceptance of the end between 
them. She thanked him for it ; an act whereby she was 
instantly melted to such softness that a dread of him 
haunted her. Coward, take up your burden for armour J 


266 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


she called to her poor dungeoned self wailing to have com- 
mon nourishment. She knew how prodigiously it waxed 
on crumbs ; nay, on the imagination of small morsels. By 
way of chastizing it, she reviewed her life, her behaviour 
to her husband, until she sank backward to a depth de- 
prived of air and light. That life with her husband was 
a dungeon to her nature deeper than any imposed by pres- 
ent conditions. She was then a revolutionary to reach to 
the breath of day. She had now to be only not a coward, 
and she could breathe as others did. “ Women who sap 
the moral laws pull down the pillars of the temple on their 
sex,” Emma had said. Diana perceived something of her 
personal debt to civilization. Her struggles passed into 
the doomed Cantatrice occupying days and nights under 
pressure for immediate payment ; the silencing of friend 
Debit, ridiculously calling himself Credit, in contempt of 
? ex and conduct, on the ground that he was he solely by 
virtue of being she. He had got a trick of singing operatic 
solos in the form and style of the delightful tenor Tellio, 
and they were touching in absurdity, most real in unreality. 
Exquisitely trilled, after Tellio’s manner, 

“ The tradesmen all beseech ye, 

The landlord, cook and maid, 

Complete The Cantatrice, 

That they may soon be paid,” 

provoked her to laughter in pathos. He approached, pos- 
turing himself operatically, with perpetual new verses, 
rhymes to Danvers, rhymes to Madame Sybille, the cook. 
Seeing Tellio at one of Henry Wilmers’ private concerts, 
Diana’s lips twitched to dimples at the likeness her familiar 
had assumed. She had to compose her countenance to talk 
to him ; but the moment of song was the trial. Lady 
Singleby sat beside her, and remarked : “ You have always 
fun going on in you ! ” She partook of the general impres- 
sion that Diana Warwick was too humorous to nurse a 
downright passion. 

Before leaving, she engaged Diana to her annual garden- 
party of the closing season, and there the meeting with 
Percy occurred, not unobserved. Had they been overheard, 
very little to implicate them would have been gathered. 


MATTER FOR SUBSEQUENT EXPLOSION 26 ? 

He walked in full view across the lawn to her, and they 
presented mask to mask. 

“ The beauty of the day tempts you at last, Mrs. War- 
wick.’’ 

“ I have been finishing a piece of work.” 

Lovely weather, beautiful dresses : agreed. Diana wore 
a yellow robe with a black bonnet, and he commented on 
the becoming hues ; for the first time, he noticed her 
dress ! Lovely women ? Dacier hesitated. One he saw. 
But surely he must admire Mrs. Fryar-Gunnett ? And 
who steps beside her, transparently fascinated, with visage 
at three-quarters to the rays within her bonnet ? Gan it be 
Sir Lukin Dunstane ? and beholding none but his charmer ! 

Dacier withdrew his eyes thoughtfully from the spectacle, 
and moved to woo Diana to a stroll. She could not restrain 
her feet ; she was out of the ring of her courtiers for the 
moment. He had seized his opportunity. 

“ It is nearly a year ! ” he said. 

“ I have been nursing nearly all the time, doing the 
work I do best.” 

“Unaltered?” 

“ A year must leave its marks.” 

“ Tony ! ” 

“ You speak of a madwoman, a good eleven months dead. 
Let her rest. Those are the conditions.” 

“ Accepted, if I may see her.” 

“ Honestly accepted ? ” 

“ Imposed fatally, I have to own. I have felt with you : 
you are the wiser. But, admitting that, surely we can 
meet. I may see you ? ” 

“ My house has not been shut.” 

“ I respected the house. I distrusted myself.” 

“ What restores your confidence ? ” 

“The strength I draw from you.” 

One of the Beauties at a garden-party is lucky to get as 
many minutes as had passed in quietness. Diana was met 
and captured. But those last words of Percy’s renewed 
her pride in him by suddenly building a firm faith in her- 
self. Hoblest of lovers ! she thought, and brooded on the 
little that had been spoken, the much conveyed, for a proof 
of perfect truthfulness. 


268 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


The world had watched them. It pronounced them dis* 
creet if culpable ; probably cold to the passion both. Of 
Dacier’s coldness it had no doubt, and Diana’s was presumed 
from her comical flights of speech. She was given to him 
because of the known failure of her other adorers. He in 
the front rank of politicians attracted her with the lustre 
of his ambition ; she him with her mingling of talent and 
beauty. An astute world; right in the main, owing to per- 
ceptions based upon brute nature; utterly astray in par- 
ticulars, for the reason that it takes no count of the soul of 
man or woman. Hence its glee at a catastrophe ; its poor 
stock of mercy. And when no catastrophe follows, the 
prophet, for the honour of the profession, must decry her 
as cunning beyond aught yet revealed of a serpent sex. 

Save for a word or two, the watchman might have over- 
heard and trumpeted his report of their interview at Diana’s 
house. After the first pained breathing, when they found 
themselves alone in that room where they had plighted 
their fortunes, they talked allusively to define the terms 
imposed on them by Reason. The thwarted step was un- 
mentioned; it was a past madness. But Wisdom being 
recognized, they could meet. It would be hard if that were 
denied ! They talked very little of their position ; both 
understood the mutual acceptance of it ; and now that he 
had seen her and was again under the spell, Dacier’s rational 
mind, together with his delight in her presence, compelled 
him honourably to bow to the terms. Only, as these were 
severe upon lovers, the innocence of their meetings de- 
manded indemnification in frequency. 

I “Come whenever you think I can be useful,” said Diana. 

They pressed hands at parting, firmly and briefly, not for 
the ordinary dactylology of lovers, but in sign of the treaty 
of amity. 

She soon learnt that she had tied herself to her costly 

household. 


THE SUBJECT OF A PORTRAIT 


269 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

DIALOGUE ROUND THE SUBJECT OF A PORTRAIT, WITH 
SOME INDICATIONS OF THE TASK FOR DIANA 

An enamoured Egeria who is not a princess in her 
worldly state nor a goddess by origin has to play one of 
those parts which strain the woman’s faculties past natural- 
ness. She must never expose her feelings to her lover; 
she must make her counsel weighty ; otherwise she is little 
his nymph of the pure wells, and what she soon may be, 
the world will say. She has also, most imperatively, to 
dazzle him without the betrayal of artifice, where simple 
spontaneousness is beyond conjuring. But feelings that 
are constrained becloud the judgement besides arresting 
the fine jet of delivery wherewith the mastered lover is 
taught through his ears to think himself prompted, and 
submit to be controlled, by a creature super-feminine. She 
must make her counsel so weighty in poignant praises as to 
repress impulses that would rouse her own ; and her betray- 
ing impulsiveness was a subject of reflection to Diana after 
she had given Percy Dacier, metaphorically, the key of her 
house. Only as his true Egeria could she receive him. 
She was therefore grateful, she thanked and venerated this 
noblest of lovers for his not pressing to the word of love, 
and so strengthening her to point his mind, freshen his 
moral energies and inspirit him. His chivalrous accept- 
ance of the conditions of their renewed intimacy was a radi- 
ant knightliness to Diana, elevating her with a living image 
for worship : — he so near once to being the absolute lord 
of her destinies ! How to reward him, was her sole danger- 
ous thought. She prayed and strove that she might give 
him of her best, to practically help him; and she had 
reason to suppose she could do it, from the visible effect of 
her phrases. He glistened in repeating them ; he had fallen 
into the habit; before witnesses too; in the presence of 
Miss Paynham, who had taken earnestly to the art of paint- 
ing, and obtained her dear Mrs. Warwick’s promise of a 
few sittings for the sketch of a portrait, near the close of 


270 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


the season. u A very daring thing to attempt/’ Miss Paym 
ham said, when he was comparing her first outlines and the 
beautiful breathing features. ‘‘Even if one gets the face, 
the lips will seem speechless, to those who know her.” 

“ If they have no recollection,” said Dacier. 

“ I mean, the endeavour should be to represent them at 
the moment of speaking.” 

“ Put it into the eyes.” He looked at the eyes. 

She looked at the mouth. “ But it is the mouth, more 
than the eyes.” 

He looked at the face. “ Where there is character, you 
have only to study it to be sure of a likeness.” 

“That is the task, with one who utters jewels, Mr. 
Dacier.” 

“Bright wit, I fear, is above the powers of your art.” 

“ Still I feel it could be done. See — now — that ! ” 

• Diana’s lips had opened to say: “Confess me a model 
model : I am dissected while I sit for portrayal. I must be 
for a moment like the frog of the two countrymen who were 
disputing as to the manner of his death, when he stretched 
to yawn, upon which they agreed that he had defeated the 
truth for both of them. I am not quite inanimate.” 

“ Irish countrymen,” said Dacier. 

“The story adds, that blows were arrested; so confer 
the nationality as you please.” 

Diana ha^l often to divert him from a too intent perusal 
of her features with sparkles and stories current or invented 
to serve the immediate purpose. 

Miss Paynham was Mrs. Warwick’s guest for a fortnight, 
and observed them together. She sometimes charitably 
laid down her pencil and left them, having forgotten this 
or that. They were conversing of general matters with 
their usual crisp precision on her return, and she was 
rather like the two countrymen, in debating whether it was 
excess of coolness or discreetness ; though she was con- 
vinced of their inclinations, and expected love some day 
to be leaping up. Diana noticed that she had no reminder 
for leaving the room when it was Mr. Bed worth present. 
These two had become very friendly, according to her 
hopes ; and Miss Paynham was extremely solicitous to draw 
suggestions from Mr. Bedworth and win his approval. 


THE SUBJECT OF A PORTRAIT 271 

“ Do I appear likely to catch the mouth now, do you 
think, Mr. Redworth ? ” 

He remarked, smiling at Diana’s expressive dimple, that 
the mouth was difficult to catch. He did not gaze intently. 
Mr. Redworth was the genius of friendship, “the friend of 
women,” Mrs. Warwick had said of him. Miss Paynham 
discovered it, as regarded herself. The portrait was his 
commission to her, kindly proposed, secretly of course, to 
give her occupation and the chance of winning a vogue with 
the face of a famous Beauty. So many, however, were 
Mrs. Warwick’s visitors, and so lively the chatter she 
directed, that accurate sketching was difficult to an ama- 
teurish hand. Whitmonby, Sullivan Smith, Westlake, 
Henry Wilmers, Arthur Rhodes, and other gentlemen, 
literary and military, were almost daily visitors when it 
became known that the tedium of the beautiful sitter re- 
quired beguiling, and there was a certainty of finding her 
at home. On Mrs. Warwick’s Wednesday numerous ladies 
decorated the group. Then was heard such a rillet of 
dialogue without scandal or politics, as nowhere else in 
Britain ; all vowed it subsequently ; for to the remembrance 
it seemed magical. Not a breath of scandal, and yet the 
liveliest flow. Lady Pennon came attended by a Mr. 
Alexander Hepburn, a handsome Scot, at whom Dacier shot 
one of his instinctive keen glances, before seeing that the 
hostess had mounted a transient colour. Mr. Hepburn, in 
settling himself on his chair rather too briskly, contrived 
the next minute to break a precious bit of China standing by 
his elbow ; and Lady Pennon cried out, with sympathetic 
anguish: “Oh, my dear, what a trial for you!” 

“Brittle is foredoomed,” said Diana, unruffled. 

She deserved compliments, and would have had them if 
she had not wounded the most jealous and petulant of her 
courtiers. 

“Then the Turk is a sapient custodian ! ” said Westlake, 
vexed with her flush at the entrance of the Scot. 

Diana sedately took his challenge. “ We, Mr. Westlake, 
have the philosophy of ownership.” 

Mr. Hepburn penitentially knelt to pick up the fragments, 
and Westlake murmured over his head: “ As long as it is 
we who are the cracked.” 


272 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ Did we not start from China ?" 

“ We were consequently precipitated to Stamboul.” 

“ You try to elude the lesson.’’ 

“ I remember my first psedagogue telling me so when he 
rapped the book on my cranium.” 

“ The mark of the book is not a disfigurement.” 

It was gently worded, and the shrewder for it. The 
mark of the book, if not a disfigurement, was a character- 
istic of Westlake’s fashion of speech. Whitmonby nodded 
twice, for signification of a palpable hit in that bout; and 
he noted within him the foolishness of obtruding the 
remotest allusion to our personality when crossing the foils 
with a woman. She is down on it like the lightning, quick 
as she is in her contracted circle; politeness guarding her 
from a riposte. 

Mr. Hepburn apologized very humbly, after regaining 
his chair. Diana smiled and said : “ Incidents in a drawing- 
room are prize- shots at Dulness.” 

“ And in a dining-room too,” added Sullivan Smith. “ I 
was one day at a dinner-party, apparently of undertakers 
hired to mourn over the joints and the birds in the dishes, 
when the ceiling came down, and we all sprang up merry 
as crickets. It led to a pretty encounter and a real 
prize-shot.” 

“ Does that signify a duel ? ” asked Lady Pennon. 

“ ’T would be the vulgar title, to bring it into discredit 
with the populace, my lady.” 

“ Rank me one of the populace then ! I hate duelling 
and rejoice that it is discountenanced.” 

“ The citizens, and not the populace, I think Mr. Sullivan 
Smith means,” Diana said. “ The citizen is generally righi 
in morals. My father also was against the practice, when 
it raged at its ‘prettiest.’ I have heard him relate a story 
of a poor friend of his, who had to march out for a trifle, 
and said, as he accepted the invitation, ‘ It ’s all nonsense ! ’ 
and walking to the measured length, ‘ It ’s all nonsense, you 
know ! ’ and when lying on the ground, at his last gasp, ‘ I 
told you it was all nonsense! ’ ” 

Sullivan Smith leaned over to Whitmonby and Dacier 
amid the ejaculations, and whispered : “ A lady’s way of 
telling the story ! — and excuseable to her : — she had to 


THE SUBJECT OP A PORTRAIT 


273 


Jonah the adjective. What the poor fellow said was 99 . » t 
he murmured the sixty-pounder adjective, as in the belly of 
the whale, to rightly emphasize his noun. 

Whitmonby nodded to the superior relish imparted by 
the vigour of masculine veracity in narration. “A story 
for its native sauce piquante,” he said* 

“ Nothing without it ! 99 

They had each a dissolving grain of contempt for women 
compelled by their delicacy to spoil that kind of story which 
demands the piquant accompaniment to flavour it racily and 
make it passable. For to see insipid mildness complacently 
swallowed as an excellent thing, knowing the rich smack 
of savour proper to the story, is your anecdotal gentleman’s- 
annoyance. But if the anecdote had supported him, Sulli- 
van Smith would have let the expletive rest. 

Major Carew Mahoney capped Mrs. Warwick’s tale of 
the unfortunate duellist with another, that confessed the 
practice absurd, though he approved of it ; and he cited 
Lord Larrian’s opinion: “It keeps men braced to civil 
conduct.” 

“ I would not differ with the dear old lord ; but no 1 the 
pistol is the sceptre of the bully,” said Diana. 

Mr. Hepburn, with the widest of eyes on her in perpetu- 
ity, warmly agreed ; and the man was notorious among men 
for his contrary action. 

“ Most righteously our Princess Egeria distinguishes her 
reign by prohibiting it,” said Lady Singleby. * 

“ And how,” Sullivan Smith sighed heavily, “ how, I ’d 
ask, are ladies to be protected from the bully?” 

He was beset : “ So it was all for us ? all in consideration 
for our benefit ? 99 

He mournfully exclaimed : “ Why, surely ! 99 

“ That is the funeral apology of the Bod, at the close of 
every barbarous chapter,” said Diana. 

“ Too fine in mind, too fat in body ; that is a consequence 
with men, dear madam. The conqueror stands to his weap- 
ons, or he loses his possessions.” 

“ Mr. Sullivan Smith jumps at his pleasure from the 
special to the general, and will be back, if we follow him, 
Lady Pennon. It is the trick men charge to women, show- 
ing that they can resemble us.* 

Id 


274 


DIANA OP ME CROSSWAYS 


Lady Pennon thumped her knee. “ Not a bit. There ? a 
no resemblance, and they know nothing of us.” 

“ Women are a blank to them, 1 believe,” said Whit- 
monby, treacherously bowing; and Westlake said: “ Traces 
of a singular scrawl have been observed when they were 
held in close proximity to the fire.” 

“ Once, on the top of a coach,” Whitmonby resumed, “I 
heard a comely dame of the period when summers are ceas- 
ing threatened by her husband with a divorce, for omitting 
to put sandwiches in their luncheon-basket. She made him 
the inscrutable answer: ‘Ah, poor man! you will go down 
ignorant to your grave ! ’ We laughed, and to this day I 
cannot tell you why.” 

“ That laugh was from a basket lacking provision ; — and 
I think we could trace our separation to it,” Diana said to 
Lady Pennon, who replied : “ They expose themselves ; they 
get no nearer to the riddle.” 

Miss Courtney, a rising young actress, encouraged by a 
smile from Mrs. Warwick, remarked : “ On the stage, we 
have each our parts equally.” 

“And speaking parts; not personae mutae.” 

“The stage has advanced in verisimilitude,” Henry Wil- 
mers added slyly ; and Diana rejoined : “You recognize a 
verisimilitude of the mirror when it is in advance of reality. 
Flatter the sketch, Miss Paynham, for a likeness to be seen. 
Probably there are still Old Conservatives who would prefer 
the personation of us by boys.” 

“ I don’t know,” Westlake affected dubiousness. “I have 
heard that a step to the riddle is gained by a serious con- 
templation of boys.” 

“ Serious ? ” 

“That is the doubt.” 

“ The doubt throws its light on the step ! ” 

“ I advise them not to take any leap from their step,” 
said Lady Pennon. 

“It would be a way of learning that we are no wiser 
than our sires ; but perhaps too painful a way,” Whitmonby 
observed. “Poor Mountford Wilts boasted of knowing 
women; and he married. To jump into the mouth of the 
enigma, is not to read it.” 

“You are figures of conceit when you speculate on us. 
Mr. Whitmonby ” 


THE SUBJECT OF A PORTRAIT 275 

tt An occupation of our leisure, my lady, for your 
amusement.” 

“The leisure of the humming-top, a thousand to the 
minute, with the pretence that it sleeps ! ” Diana said. 

“ The sacrilegious hand to strip you of your mystery is 
withered as it stretches,” exclaimed Westlake. “ The saga 
and the devout are in accord for once.” 

“And whichever of the two I may be, I ’m one of them, 
happy to do my homage blindfold ! ” Sullivan Smith waved 
the sign of it. 

Diana sent her eyes over him and Mr. Hepburn, seeing 
Dacier. “ That rosy medievalism seems the utmost we can 
expect.” An instant she saddened, foreboding her words 
to be ominous, because of suddenly thirsting for a modern 
cry from him, the silent. She quitted her woman’s fit of 
earnestness, and took to the humour that pleased him. 
“Aslauga’s knight, at his blind man’s buff of devotion, 
catches the hem of the tapestry and is found by his lady 
kissing it in a trance of homage five hours long! Sir 
Hilary of Agincourt, returned from the wars to his castle 
at midnight, hears that the chatelaine is away dancing, 
and remains with all his men mounted in the courtyard 
till the grey morn brings her back ! Adorable ! We had 
a flag flying in those days. Since men began to fret the 
riddle, they have hauled it down half-mast. Soon we shall 
behold a bare pole and hats on around it. That is their 
solution.” 

A smile circled at the hearing of Lady Singleby say : 
“Well! I am all for our own times, however literal the 
men.” 

“ We are two different species ! ” thumped Lady Pennon, 
swimming on the theme. “I am sure, I read what they 
write of women ! And their heroines ! ” 

Lady Esquart acquiesced : “ We are utter fools or horrid 
knaves.” 

“ Nature’s original hieroglyphs — which have that appear- 
ance to the peruser,” Westlake assented. 

“ And when they would decipher us, and they hit on one 
of our ‘arts,’ the literary pirouette they perform is 
memorable.” Diana looked invitingly at Dacier. “But I 
for one discern a possible relationship and a likeness.” 


276 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ I think it exists — behind a curtain,” Dacier replied. 

“ Before the era of the Nursery. Liberty to grow ; 
independence is the key of the secret.” 

“ And what comes after the independence ? ” he inquired. 

Whitmonby, musing that some distraction of an earnest 
incentive spoilt Mrs. Warwick’s wit, informed him : “The 
two different species then break their shallow armistice and 
join the shock of battle for possession of the earth, and we 
are outnumbered and exterminated, to a certainty. So I am 
against independence.” 

“ Socially a Mussulman, subject to explosions!” Diana 
said. “ So the eternal duel between us is maintained, and 
men will protest that they are for civilization. Dear me, I 
should like to write a sketch of the women of the future — 
don’t be afraid! — the far future. What a different earth 
you will see ! ” 

And very different creatures ! the gentlemen unanimously 
surmised. Westlake described the fairer portion, no longer 
the weaker ; frightful hosts. 

Diana promised him a sweeter picture, if ever she brought 
her hand to paint it. 

“ You would be offered up to the English national hang- 
man, Jehoiachim Sneer,” interposed Arthur Bhodes, evi- 
dently firing a gun too big for him, of premeditated charging, 
as his patroness perceived; but she knew him to be 
smarting under recent applications of the swish of Mr. 
Sneer, and that he rushed to support her. She covered 
him by saying : “ If he has to be encountered, he kills none 
but the cripple,” wherewith the dead pause ensuing from a 
dose of outlandish speech in good company was bridged, 
though the youtl^ heard Westlake mutter unpleasantly : 
‘‘Jehoiachim,” and had to endure a stare of Dacier’s, who 
did. not conceal his want of comprehension of the place he 
occupied in Mrs. Warwick’s gatherings. 

“They know nothing of us whatever!” Lady Pennon 
harped on her dictum. 

“ They put us in a case and profoundly study the captive 
creature,” said Diana: “but would any man understand 
this ? . . .” She dropped her voice and drew in the heads 
of Lady Pennon, Lady Singleby, Lady Esquart and Miss 
Courtney: “Beal woman’s nature speaks. A maid of mine 


THE SUBJECT OF A PORTRAIT 


277 


had a ‘follower.’ She was a good girl; I was anxious 
about her and asked her if she could trust him. ‘ Oh, yes, 
ma’am,’ she replied, ‘ I can ; he ’s quite like a female.’ I 
longed to see the young man, to tell him he had received 
the highest of eulogies.” 

The ladies appreciatingly declared that such a tale was 
beyond the understandings of men. Miss Paynham primmed 
her mouth, admitting to herself her inability to repeat such 
a tale : an act that she deemed not “ quite like a lady.” She 
had previously come to the conclusion that Mrs. Warwick, 
with all her generous qualities, was deficient in delicate 
sentiment — owing perhaps to her coldness of temperament. 
Like Dacier also, she failed to comprehend the patronage 
of Mr. Rhodes: it led to suppositions; indefinite truly, and 
not calumnious at all ; but a young poet, rather good-look- 
ing and well built, is not the same kind of wing-chick as a 
young actress, like Miss Courtney — Mrs. Warwick’s latest 
shieldling : he is hardly enrolled for the reason that was 
assumed to sanction Mrs. Warwick’s maid in the encourage- 
ment of her follower. Miss Paynham sketched on, with 
her thoughts in her bosom : a damsel castigatingly pursued 
by the idea of sex as the direct motive of every act of every 
person surrounding her; deductively therefore that a cer- 
tain form of the impelling passion, mild or terrible, or 
capricious, or it might be less pardonable, was unceasingly 
at work among the human couples up to decrepitude. And 
she too frequently hit the fact to doubt her gift of reading 
into them. Mr. Dacier was plain, and the state of young Mr. 
Rhodes ; and the Scottish gentleman was at least a vehe- 
ment admirer. But she penetrated the breast of Mr. 
Thomas Red worth as well, mentally tore his mask of friend- 
ship to shreds. He was kind indeed in commissioning her 
to do the portrait. His desire for it, and his urgency to 
have the features exactly given, besides the infrequency of 
his visits of late, when a favoured gentleman was present, 
were the betraying signs. Deductively, moreover, the lady 
who inspired the passion in numbers of gentlemen and set 
herself to win their admiration with her lively play of dia- 
logue, must be coquettish ; she could hold them only by 
coldness. Anecdotes, epigrams, drolleries, do not bubble 
to the lips of a woman who is under an emotional spell ? 


278 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


rather they prove that she has 1;he spell for casting. It 
suited Mr. Dacier, Miss Paynham thought : it was cruel 
to Mr. Redworth ; at whom, of all her circle, the beauti- 
ful woman looked, when speaking to him, sometimes 
tenderly. 

“ Beware the silent one of an assembly ! ” Diana had 
written. She did not think of her words while Miss Payn* 
ham continued mutely sketching. The silent ones, with 
much conversation around them, have their heads at work, 
critically perforce ; the faster if their hands are occupied ; 
and the point they lean to do is the pivot of their thoughts. 
Miss Paynham felt for Mr. Bed worth. 

Diana was unaware of any other critic present than him 
she sought to enliven, not unsuccessfully, notwithstanding 
his English objection to the pitch of the converse she led, 
and a suspicion of effort to support it : — just a doubt, with 
all her easy voluble run, of the possibility of naturalness in 
a continuous cleverness. But he signified pleasure, and in 
pleasing him she was happy : in the knowledge that she 
dazzled, was her sense of safety. Percy hated scandal ; he 
heard none. He wanted stirring, cheering; in her house 
he had it. He came daily, and as it was her wish that 
new themes, new flights of converse, should delight him 
and show her exhaustless, to preserve her ascendancy, she 
welcomed him without consulting the world. He was 
witness of Mr. Hepburn’s presentation of a costly China 
vase, to repair the breach in her array of ornaments, and 
excuse a visit. Judging by the absence of any blow within, 
he saw not a sign of coquetry. Some such visit had been 
anticipated by the prescient woman, so there was no red- 
dening. She brought about an exchange of sentences be- 
tween him and her furious admirer, sparing either of them 
a glimpse of which was the sacrifice to the other, amusing 
them both. Dacier could allow Mr. Hepburn to outsit 
him ; and he left them, proud of his absolute confidence 
in her. 

She was mistaken in imagining that her social vivacity, 
mixed with comradeship of the active intellect, was the 
charm which kept Mr. Percy Dacier temperate when he 
well knew her to distinguish him above her courtiers. Her 
powers of dazzling kept him tame ; they did not stamp her 


THE SUBJECT OF A PORTRAIT 279 

mark on him. He was one of the order of highly polished 
men, ignorant of women, who are impressed for long terms 
by temporary flashes, that hold them bound until a fresh 
impression comes, to confirm or obliterate the preceding. 
Affairs of the world he could treat competently ; he had a 
head for high politics and the management of men ; the 
feminine half of the world was a confusion and a vexation 
to his intelligence, characterless; and one woman at last 
appearing decipherable, he fancied it must be owing to her 
possession of character, a thing prized the more in women 
because of his latent doubt of its existence. Character, that 
was the mark he aimed at ; that moved him to homage as 
neither sparkling wit nor incomparable beauty, nor the urn 
usual combination, did. To be distinguished by a woman 
of character (beauty and wit for jewellery), was his minov 
ambition in life, and if Fortune now gratified it, he owned 
to the flattery. It really seemed by every test that she had 
the quality. Since the day when he beheld her by the bed- 
side of his dead uncle, and that one on the French sea-sands, 
and again at Copsley, ghostly white out of her wrestle with 
death, bleeding holy sweat of brow for her friend, the print 
of her features had been on him as an index of depth of 
character, imposing respect and admiration — a sentiment 
imperilled by her consent to fly with him. Her subsequent 
reserve until they met — by an accident that the lady at 
any rate was not responsible for, proved the quality posi- 
tively. And the nature of her character, at first suspected, 
vanquished him more, by comparison, than her vivid intel- 
lect, which he originally, and still lingeringly, appreciated 
in condescension, as a singular accomplishment, thrilling at 
times, now and then assailably feminine. But, after her 
consent to a proposal that caused him retrospective worldly 
shudders, and her composed recognition of the madness, a 
character capable of holding him in some awe was real 
majesty, and it rose to the clear heights, with her mental 
attributes for satellites. His tendency to despise women 
was wholesomely checked by the experience to justify him 
in saying, Here is a worthy one ! She was health to him, 
as well as trusty counsel. Furthermore, where he respected, 
he was a governed man, free of the common masculine craze 
to scale fortresses for the sake of lowering flags. Whilst 


280 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


under his impression of her character, he submitted honour- 
ably to the ascendancy of a lady whose conduct suited him 
and whose preference flattered; whose presence was very 
refreshing; whose letters were a stimulant. Her letters 
were really running well-waters, not a lover’s delusion of 
the luminous mind of his lady. They sparkled in review 
and preserved their integrity under critical analysis. The 
reading of them hurried him in pursuit of her from house 
to house during the autumn ; and as she did not hint at the 
shadow his coming cast on her, his conscience was easy. 
Regarding their future, his political anxieties were a moun- 
tainous defile, curtaining the outlook. They met at Lockton, 
where he arrived after a recent consultation with his Chief, 
of whom, and the murmurs of the Cabinet, he spoke to 
Diana openly, in some dejection. 

“ They might see he has been breaking with his party for 
the last four years,” she said. “ The plunge to be taken is 
tremendous.” 

“ But will he? He appears too despondent for a header.” 

“We cannot dance on a quaking floor.” 

“ No ; it ’s exactly that quake of the floor which gives 
1 much qualms,’ to me as well,” said Dacier. 

“ A treble Neptune’s power ! ” she rejoined, for his 
particular delectation. “Enough if he hesitates. I forgive 
him his nausea. He awaits the impetus, and it will reach 
him, and soon. He will not wait for the mob at his heels, 
I am certain. A Minister who does that, is a post, and goes 
down with the first bursting of the dam. He has tried com- 
promise and discovered that it does not appease the Fates ; 
is not even a makeshift-mending at this hour. He is a man 
of nerves, very sensitively built ; as quick — quicker than a 
woman, I could almost say, to feel the tremble of the air — 
forerunner of imperative changes.” 

Dacier brightened fondly. “ You positively describe him; 
paint him to the life, without knowing him ! ” 

“ I have seen him ; and if I paint, whose are the colours ? ” 

“ Sometimes I repeat you to him, and I get all the credit.” 
said Dacier. 

“ I glow with pride to think of speaking anything that 
you repeat,” said Diana, and her eyes were proudly lustre fub 

Their love was nourished on these mutual flatteries. 


THE POLITICAL AND THE DOMESTIC CRISIS 281 

Thin food for passion ! The innocence of it sanctioned the 
meetings and the appointments to meet. When separated 
they were interchanging letters, formally worded in the 
apostrophe and the termination, but throbbingly full : or 
Diana thought so of Percy’s letters, with grateful justice; 
for his manner of opening his heart in amatory correspond- 
ence was to confide important secret matters, up to which 
mark she sprang to reply in counsel. He proved his affec- 
tion by trustiug her ; his respect by his tempered style : — 
“ A Greenland style of writing,” she had said of an unhappy 
gentleman’s epistolary compositions resembling it ; and now 
the same official baldness was to her mind Italianly rich ; it 
called forth such volumes. 

Flatteries that were thin food for passion appeared the 
simplest exchanges of courtesy, and her meetings with her 
lover, judging by the nature of the discourse they held, so 
consequent to their joint interest in the great crisis antici- 
pated, as to rouse her indignant surprise and a turn for 
downright rebellion when the Argus world signified the fact 
of its having one eye, or more, wide open. 

Debit and Credit, too, her buzzing familiars, insisted on 
an audience at each ear, and at the house-door, on her return 
to London. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

SHOWS THE APPROACHES OF THE POLITICAL AND THE 
DOMESTIC CRISIS IN COMPANY 

There was not much talk of Diana between Lady Dunstane 
and her customary visitor Tom Red worth now* She was 
shy in speaking of the love-stricken woman, and more was 
in his mind for thought than for speech. She sometimes 
wondered how much he might know, ending with the re- 
flection that little passing around was unknown to him. 
He had to shut his mind against thought, against all medi- 
tation upon Mrs. Warwick; it was based scientifically when 
speculating and calculating, on the material element — a 
talisman. Men and women crossing the high seas of life 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


he had found most readable under that illuminating in- 
quiry, as to their means. An inspector of seaworthy ships 
proceeds in like manner. Whence would the money come ? 
He could not help the bent of his mind ; but he could avoid 
subjecting her to the talismanic touch. The girl at the 
Dublin Ball, the woman at the fire-grate of The Crossways, 
both in one were his Diana. Now and then, hearing an 
ugly whisper, his manful sympathy with the mere woman 
in her imprisoned liberty, defended her desperately from 
charges not distinctly formulated within him: — “ She’s 
not made of stone.” That was a height of self-abnegation 
to shake the poor fellow to his roots; but, then, he had 
no hopes of his own ; and he stuck to it. Her choice of 
a man like Dacier, too, of whom Bed worth judged highly, 
showed nobility. She irradiated the man ; but no base- 
ness could be in such an alliance. If allied, they were 
bound together for good. The tie — supposing a villain 
world not wrong — was only not the sacred tie because of 
impediments. The tie ! — he deliberated, and said stoutly 
No. Men of Kedworth’s nature go through sharp con- 
tests, though the duration of them is short, and the tussle 
of his worship of this woman with the materialistic turn 
of his mind was closed by the complete shutting up of 
the latter under lock and bar ; so that a man, very little 
of an idealist, was able to sustain her in the pure im- 
agination — where she did almost belong to him. She 
was his, in a sense, because she might have been his — but 
for an incredible extreme of folly. The dark ring of the 
eclipse cast by some amazing foolishness round the shining 
crescent perpetually in secret claimed the whole sphere of 
her, by what might have been, while admitting h et lost to 
him in fact. To Thomas Redworth’s mind the lack of per- 
fect sanity in his conduct at any period of manhood, was so 
entirely past belief that he flew at the circumstances con- 
firming the charge, and had wrestles with the angel of 
reality, who did but set him dreaming backward, after 
flinging him. 

He heard at Lady WathiiTs that Mrs. Warwick was In 
town for the winter. “ Mr. Dacier is also in town,” Lady 
Wathin said, with an acid indication of the needless mem 
tion of it. “We biive not seen him.” She invited Red 


THE POLITICAL AND THE DOMESTIC CRISIS 283 


worth to meet a few friends at dinner. “ I think you 
admire Miss Asper : in my idea a very saint among young 
women ; and you know what the young women of our day 
are. She will be present. She is, you are aware, Eng- 
land’s greatest heiress. Only yesterday, hearing of that 
poor man Mr. Warwick’s desperate attack of illness — 
heart! — and of his having no relative or friend to soothe 
his pillow, — he is lying in absolute loneliness, — she offered 
to go and nurse him ! Of course it could not be done. It 
is not her place. The beauty of the character of a dear 
innocent young girl, with every gratification at command, 
who could make the offer, strikes me as unparalleled. She 
was perfectly sincere — she is sincerity. She asked at 
once, Where is he ? She wished me to accompany her 
on a. first visit. I saw a tear.” 

Redworth had called at Lady Wathin’s for information 
of the state of Mr. Warwick, concerning which a rumour 
was abroad. No stranger to the vagrant compassionate- 
ness of sentimentalists; — rich, idle, conscience-pricked or 
praise-catching ; — he was unmoved by the tale that Miss 
Asper had proposed to go to Mr. Warwick’s sick-bed in the 
uniform of a Sister of Charity : — “ Speaking French ! ” 
Lady Wathin exclaimed ; and his head rocked, as he said: 
“ An Englishman would not be likely to know better.” 

“She speaks exquisite French — all European languages, 
Mr. Redworth. She does not pretend to wit. To my think- 
ing, depth of sentiment is a far more feminine accomplish- 
ment. It assuredly will be found a greater treasure.” 

The modest man (modest in such matters) was led by 
degrees to fancy himself sounded regarding Miss Asper : 
a piece of sculpture glacially decorative of the domestic 
mansion in person, to his thinking; and as to the nature of 
it — not a Diana, with all her faults ! 

If Diana had any faults, in a world and a position so 
heavily against her ! He laughed to himself, when alone, 
at the neatly implied bitter reproach cast on the wife by 
the forsaken young lady, who proposed to nurse the aban- 
doned husband of the woman bereaving her of the man she 
loved. Sentimentalists enjoy these tricks, the conceiving 
or the doing of them — the former mainly, which are 
cheaper, and equally effective. Miss As, per might be defi* 


284 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


cient in wit ; this was a form of practical wit, occasionally 
exhibited by creatures acting on their instincts. Warwick 
he pitied, and he put compulsion on himself to go and see 
the poor fellow, the subject of so sublime a generosity. 
Mr. Warwick sat in an arm-chair, his legs out straight on 
the heels, his jaw dragging hollow cheeks, his hands loosely 
joined ; improving in health, he said. A demure woman 
of middle age was in attendance. He did not speak of his 
wife. Three times he said disconnectedly, “ I hear reports,” 
and his eyelids worked. Redworth talked of general 
affairs, without those consolatory efforts, useless between 
men, which are neither medicine nor good honest water: 
— he judged by personal feelings. In consequence, he left 
an invalid the sourer for his visit. 

Next day he received a briefly-worded summons from-Mrs. 
Warwick. 

Crossing the park on the line to Diana’s house, he met 
Miss Paynham, who grieved to say that Mrs. Warwick 
could not give her a sitting; and in a still mournfuller tone, 
imagined he would find her at home, and alone by this 
time. “I left no one but Mr. Dacier there,” she observed. 

" Mrs. Warwick will be disengaged tg-morrow, no doubt,” 
he said consolingly. 

Her head performed the negative. “ They talk politics, 
and she becomes animated, loses her pose. I will per- 
severe, though I fear I have undertaken a task too much 
for me.” 

“I am deeply indebted to you for the attempt.” Red- 
worth bowed to her and set his face to the Abbey-towers, 
which wore a different aspect in the smoked grey light 
since his two minutes of colloquy. He had previously 
noticed that meetings with Miss Paynham produced a 
similar effect on him, a not so very impressionable man. 
And how was it done ? She told him nothing he did not 
know or guess. 

Diana was alone. Her manner, after the greeting, 
seemed feverish. She had not to excuse herself for abrupt- 
ness when he heard the nature of the subject. Her coun- 
sellor and friend was informed, in feminine style, that she 
had requested him to call, for the purpose of consulting 
him with regard to a matter she had decided upon ; and it 


THE POLITICAL AND THE DOMESTIC CRISIS 285 

was, the sale of The Crossways. She said that it would 
have gone to her heart once ; she supposed she had lost 
her affection for the place, or had got the better of her 
superstitions. She spoke lamely as well as bluntly. The 
place was hers, she said ; her own property. Her husband 
could not interdict a sale. 

Eedworth addressed himself to her smothered antago- 
nism. “Even if he had rights, as they are termed ... I 
think you might count on their not being pressed.” 

“ I have been told of illness.” She tapped her foot on 
the floor. 

“ His present state of health is unequal to his ordinary 
duties.” 

“Emma Dunstane is fully supplied with the latest in- 
telligence, Mr. Eedworth. You know the source.” 

“ I mention it simply . . . ” 

“ Yes, yes. What I have to protest is, that in this 
respect I am free. The Law has me fast, but leaves me 
its legal view of my small property. I have no authority 
over me. I can do as I please in this, without a collision, 
or the dread of one. It is the married woman’s perpetual 
dread when she ventures a step. Your Law originally 
presumed her a China-footed animal. And more, I have a 
claim for maintenance.” 

She crimsoned angrily. 

Eedworth showed a look of pleasure, hard to understand. 
“ The application would be sufficient, I fancy,” he said. 

“ It should have been offered.” 

“ Did you not decline it ? ” 

“ I declined to apply for it. I thought — But, Mr. 
Eedworth, another thing, concerning us all : I want very 
much to hear your ideas of the prospects of the League ; be- 
cause I know you have ideas. The leaders are terrible men ; 
they fascinate me. They appear to move with an army 
of facts. They are certainly carrying the country. I am 
obliged to think them sincere. Common agitators would 
not hold together, as they do. They gather strength each 
year. If their statistics are not illusory — an army of 
phantoms instead of one of facts ; — and they knock at my 
head without admission, I have to confess; they must 
win.” 


286 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


" Ultimately, it is quite calculable that they will win,” 
said Redworth ; and he was led to discourse of rates and 
duties and prohibitive tariffs to a woman surprisingly athirst, 
curious for every scrap of intelligence relating to the power, 
organization, and schemes of the League. “ Common sense 
is the secret of every successful civil agitation,” he said. 
“ Rap it unremittingly on crowds of the thickest of human 
heads, and the response comes at last to sweep all before it. 
You may reckon that the country will beat the landlords — 
for that is our question. Is it one of your political themes ? ” 

“I am not presumptuous to such a degree: — a poor 
scholar,” Diana replied. “ Women striving to lift their 
heads among men deserve the sarcasm.” 

He denied that any sarcasm was intended, and the lesson 
continued. When she had shaped in her mind some por- 
tion of his knowledge of the subject, she reverted casually 
to her practical business. Would he undertake to try to 
obtain a purchaser of The Crossways, at the price he might 
deem reasonable ? She left the price entirely to his judge- 
ment. And now she had determined to part with the old 
place, the sooner the better! She said that smiling; and 
Redworth smiled, outwardly and inwardly. Her talk of 
her affairs was clearer to him than her curiosity for the 
mysteries of the League. He gained kind looks besides 
warm thanks by the promise to seek a purchaser ; especially 
by his avoidance of prying queries. She wanted just this 
excellent automaton fac-totum ; and she referred him to 
Mr. Braddock for the title-deeds et caetera — the chirping 
phrase of ladies happily washing their hands of the mean 
details of business. 

“ How of your last work ? ” he asked her. 

Serenest equanimity rejoined : “Asl anticipated, it is not 
popular. The critics are of one mind with the public. You 
may have noticed, they rarely flower above that rocky sur- 
face. The Cantatrice sings them a false note. My next 
will probably please them less.” 

Her mobile lips and brows shot the faint upper-wreath of 
a smile hovering. It was designed to display her philosophy. 

“ And what is the name of your next ? ” said he. 

“I name it The Man of Two Minds, if you can allow 
that to be in nature.” 


THE POLITICAL AND THE DOMESTIC CRISIS 287 


“ Contra-distinguished from the woman ? ” 

u Oh ! you must first believe the woman to have one.” 

“ You are working on it ? ” 

“ By fits. And I forgot, Mr. Bedworth : I have mislaid 
my receipts, and must ask you for the address of your wine- 
merchant ; — or, will you ? Several dozen of the same wines. 
I can trust him to be in awe of you, and the good repute of 
my table depends on his honesty.” 

Bedworth took the definite order for a large supply of 
wine. 

She gave him her hand : a lost hand, dear to hold, need- 
ing to be guided, he feared. For him, it was merely a hand, 
cut off from the wrist ; and he had performed that executive 
part ! A wiser man would now have been the lord of 
it. . . . So he felt, with his burning wish to protect and 
cherish the beloved woman, while saying : “ If we find a 
speedy bidder for The Crossways, you will have to thank 
our railways.” 

“ You ! ” said Diana, confident in his ability to do every- 
thing of the practical kind. 

Her ingenuousness tickled him. He missed her comic 
touches upon men and things, but the fever shown by her 
manner accounted for it. 

As soon as he left her, she was writing to the lover who 
had an hour previously been hearing her voice ; the note of 
her theme being Party ; and how to serve it, when to sacri- 
fice it to the Country. She wrote, carolling bars of the Puri- 
tani marches ; and such will passion do, that her choice of 
music was quite in harmony with her theme. The mar- 
tially-amorous melodies of Italian Opera in those days 
fostered a passion challenged to intrepidity from the heart 
of softness; gilding at the same time, and putting warm 
blood even into dull arithmetical figures which might be 
important to her lover, her hero fronting battle. She con- 
densed Bedworth’s information skilfully, heartily giving it 
and whatever she had imbibed, as her own, down to the 
remark : “-Common sense in questions of justice, is a weapon 
that makes way into human heads and wins the certain 
majority, if we strike with it incessantly.” Whether any- 
thing she wrote was her own, mattered little : the savour of 
Percy's praise, which none could share with her, made it 


288 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


instantly all her own. Besides she wrote to strengthen him ; 
she naturally laid her friends and the world under contri- 
bution ; and no other sort of writing was possible. Percy 
had not a common interest in fiction ; still less for high 
comedy. He liked the broad laugh when he deigned to 
open books of that sort ; puns and strong flavours and har- 
lequin surprises ; and her work would not admit of them, 
however great her willingness to force her hand for his 
amusement : consequently her inventiveness deadened. She 
had to cease whipping it. “ My poor old London cabhorse 
of a pen shall go to grass ! ” she sighed, looking to the sale 
of The Crossways for money; looking no farther. 

Those marshalled battalions of Debit and Credit were in 
hostile order, the weaker simpty devoted to fighting for 
delay, when a winged messenger bearing the form of old 
Mr. Braddock descended to her with the reconciling news 
that a hermit bachelor, an acquaintance of Mr. Bed worth’s 
— both of whom wore a gloomy hue in her mind immedi- 
ately — had offered a sum for the purchase of The Cross- 
ways. Considering the out-of-the-way district, Mr. Braddock 
thought it an excellent price to get. She thought the re- 
verse, but confessed that double the sum would not have 
altered her opinion. Double the sum scarcely counted for 
the service she required of it for much more than a year. 
The money was paid shortly after into her Bank, and then 
she enjoyed the contemptuous felicity of tossing meat to her 
lions, tigers, wolves, and jackals, who, but for the fortunate 
intervention, would have boen feeding on her. These me- 
nagerie beasts of prey were the lady’s tradesmen, Debit’s 
hungry brood. She had a rapid glimpse of a false position 
in regarding that legitimate band so scornfully : another 
glimpse likewise of a day to come when they might not be 
stopped at the door. She was running a race with some- 
thing ; — with what ? It was unnamed ; it ran in a shroud. 

At times she surprised her heart violently beating when 
there had not been a thought to set it in motion. She traced 
it once to the words “ next year,” incidentally mentioned. 
“Free,” was a word that checked her throbs, as at a ques- 
tion of life or death. Her solitude, excepting the hours of 
sleep, if then, was a time of irregular breathing. The some- 
thing unnamed, running beside her, became a dreadful 


THE POLITICAL AND THE DOMESTIC CRISIS 289 


familiar; the race between them past contemplation for 
ghastliness. “But this is your Law!” she cried to the 
world, while blinding her eyes against a peep of the shrouded 
features. 

Singularly, she had but to abandon hope, and the shadowy 
figure vanished, the tragic race was ended. / How to live 
ajid thi nk, an d not to hop e : the slave of passion hM'thls 
nrobleiu be fore Tier."] ~ T 

Other tasks were supportable, though one seemed hard 
at moments and was not passive; it attacked her. The 
men and women of her circle derisively, unanimously, dis- 
believed in an innocence that forfeited reputation. Women 
were complimentarily assumed to be not such gaping idiots. 
And as the weeks advanced, a change came over Percy. 
The gentleman had grown restless at covert congratulations, 
hollow to his knowledge, however much caressing vanity, 
and therefore secretly a wound to it. One day, after sitting 
silent, he bluntly proposed to break “this foolish trifling;” 
just in his old manner, though not so honourably ;. not very 
definitely either. Her hand was taken. 

“ I feared that dumbness ! ” Diana said, letting her hand 
go, but keeping her composure. “ My friend Percy, I am 
not a lion-tamer, and if you are of those animals, we break 
the chapter. Plainly you think that where there appears 
to be a choice of fools, the woman is distinctly designed for 
the person. Drop my hand, or I shall repeat the fable of 
the Goose with the Golden Eggs.” 

“ Fables are applicable only in the school-room,” said he ; 
and he ventured on “ Tony ! ” 

“ I vowed an oath to my dear Emma — as good as to the 
heavens! and that of itself would stay me from being in- 
sane again.” She released herself. “Signor Percy, you 
teach me to suspect you of having an idle wish to pluck 
your plaything to pieces : — to boast of it ? Ah ! my friend, 
I fancied I was of more value to you. You must come less 
often ; even to not at all, if you are one of those idols with 
feet of clay which leave the print of their steps in a room ; 
or fall and crush the silly idolizer.” 

“But surely you know ...” said he. “We can’t have 
to wait long.” He looked full of hopeful meanings. 

“ A reason ! ” . . . She kept down her breath. A 


290 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


drawn sigh followed, through parted lips. She had a sen 
sation of horror. “ And I cannot propose to nurse him — 
Emma will not hear of it,” she said. “ I dare not. Hypo- 
crite to that extreme ? Oh, no! But I must hear nothing. 
As it is, I am haunted. Now let this pass. Tony me no 
Tonies ; I am atony to such whimpering business now we 
are in the van of the struggle. All round us it sounds like 
war. Last night I had Mr. Tonans dicing here ; he wished 
to meet you ; and you must have a private meeting with 
Mr. Whitmonby : he will be useful ; others as well. You 
are wrong in affecting contempt of the Press. It perches 
you on a rock; but the swimmer in politics knows what 
draws the tides. Your own people, your set, your class, 
are a drag to you, like inherited superstitions to the waken- 
ing brain. The greater the glory ! For you see the lead 
you take ? You are saving your class. They should lead, 
and will, if they prove worthy in the crisis. Their curi- 
ous error is to believe in the stability of a monumental 
position.” 

“Perfectly true!” cried Dacier; and the next minute, 
heated by approbation, was begging for her hand earnestly. 
She refused it. 

“ But you say things that catch me! ” he pleaded. “ Ke^ 
member, it was nearly mine. It soon will be mine. I heard 
yesterday from Lady Wathin . . . well, if it pains you!” 

“ Speak on,” said Diana, resigned to her thirsty ears. 

“ He is not expected to last through the autumn.” 

“ The calculation is hers ? ” 

“ Not exactly : — judging from the symptoms.” 

Diana flashed a fiery eye into Dacier’s, and rose. She 
was past danger of melting, with her imagination darkened 
by the funeral image ; but she craved solitude, and had to 
act the callous, to dismiss him. 

“Good. Enough for the day. Now leave me, if you 
please. When we meet again, stifle that raven’s croak. I 
am not a ‘ Sister of Charity,’ but neither am I a vulture 
hovering for the horse in the desert to die. A poor sim- 
ile ! — when it is my own and not another’s breath that I 
want. Nothing in nature, only gruesome German stories 
will fetch comparisons for the yoke of this Law of yours. 
It seems the nightmare dream following an ogre’s supper.” 


THE POLITICAL AND THE DOMESTIC CRISIS 291 


She was not acting the shiver of her frame. 

To-morrow was open to him, and prospect of better for- 
tune, so he departed, after squeezing the hand she cere« 
moniously extended. 

But her woman’s intuition warned her that she had not 
maintained the sovereign impression which was her secur- 
ity. And hope had become a flame in her bosom that would 
no longer take the common extinguisher. The race she 
ran was with a shrouded figure no more, but with the figure 
of the shroud ; she had to summon paroxysms of a pity 
hard to feel, images of sickness, helplessness, the vaults, 
the last human silence — for the stilling of her passionate 
heart. And when this was partly effected, the question, 
Am I going to live ? renewed her tragical struggle. Who 
was it under the vaults, in the shroud, between the planks ? 
and with human sensibility to swell the horror ! Passion 
whispered of a vaster sorrow needed for herself ; and the 
hope conjuring those frightful complexities was needed to 
soothe her. She pitied the man, but she was an enamoured 
woman. Often of late she had been sharply stung, relaxed 
as well, by the observations of Danvers assisting at her 
toilette. Had she beauty and charm, beauty and rich health 
in the young summer blooming of her days? — and all 
doomed to waste ? Ho insurgency of words arose in denun- 
ciation of the wrong done to her nature. An undefined 
heavy feeling of wrong there was, just perceptive enough 
to let her know, without gravely shaming, that one or an- 
other must be slain for peace to come ; for it is the case in 
which the world of the Laws overloading her is pitiless to 
women, deaf past ear-trumpets, past intercession ; detesting 
and reviling them for a feeble human cry, and for one ap- 
parent step of revolt piling the pelted stones on them. It 
will not discriminate shades of hue, it massacres all the 
shadowed. They are honoured, after a fashion, at a certain 
elevation. Descending from it, and purely to breathe com- 
mon air (thus in her mind), they are scourged and outcast. 
And alas! the very pleading for them excites a sort of ridi- 
cule in their advocate. How ? She was utterly, even des- 
perately, nay personally, earnest, and her humour closed 
her lips ; though comical views of the scourged and outcast 
coming from the opposite party — the huge bully world — 


292 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


she would not have tolerated. Diana raged at a prevailing 
strength c n the part of that huge bully world, which seemed 
really to embrace the atmosphere. Emma had said : “ The 
rules of Christian Society are a blessed Government for us 
women. We owe it so much that there is not a brick of 
the fabric we should not prop.” Emma’s talk of obedience 
to the Laws, being Laws, was repeated by the rebel, with 
an involuntary unphrased comparison of the vessel in dock 
and the vessel at sea. 

When Dacier next called to see Mrs. W 7 arwick, he heard 
that she had gone to Copsley for a couple of weeks. The 
lesson was emphasized by her not writing : — and was it 
the tricky sex, or the splendid character of the woman, 
which dealt him this punishment ? Knowing how much 
Diana forfeited for him, he was moved to some enthusiasm, 
despite his inclination to be hurt. 

She, on her return to London, gained a considerable in- 
crease of knowledge as to her position in the eye of the 
world; and unlike the result of her meditations derived 
from the clamouring tradesmen, whom she could excuse, 
she was neither illuminated nor cautioned by that dubious 
look ; she conscientiously revolted. Lady Pennon hinted 
a word for her government. “A good deal of what you 
so capitally call ‘ Green tea talk ’ is going on, my dear.” 
Diana replied, without pretending to misunderstand : “Gos- 
sip is a beast of prey that does not wait for the death of the 
creature it devours. They are welcome to my shadow, if 
the liberty I claim casts one, and it feeds them.” To which 
the old lady rejoined: “Oh! I am with you through thick 
and thin. I presented you at Court, and I stand by you. 
Only, walk carefully. Women have to walk with a train. 
You are too famous not to have your troops of watchers.” 

“ But I mean to prove,” said Diana, “ that a woman can 
walk with her train independent of the common reserves 
and artifices.” 

“ Not on highways, my dear ! ” 

Diana, praising the speaker, referred the whole truth in 
that to the material element of her metaphor. 

She was more astonished by Whitmonby’s candid chid- 
ing ; but with him she could v fence, and men are easily 
diverted. She had sent for him. to bring him and Percy 


THE POLITICAL AND THE DOMESTIC CRISIS 298 


Dacier together to a conference. Unaware of the project, 
he took the opportunity of their privacy to speak of the 
great station open to her in London being imperilled j and 
he spoke of “tongues,” and ahem! A very little would 
have induced him to fill that empty vocable with a name. 

She had to pardon the critic in him for an unpleasant 
review of her hapless Cantatrice ; and as a means of eva- 
sion, she mentioned the poor book and her slaughter of the 
heroine, that he had complained of. 

U I killed her j I could not let her live. You were unjust 
in accusing the authoress of heartlessness.” 

“If I did. I retract,” said he. “ She steers too evi- 
dently from the centre of the vessel. She has the organ 
in excess.” 

“ Proof that it is not squandered.” 

“ The point concerns direction.” 

“ Have I made so bad a choice of my friends ?" 

“ It is the common error of the sprightly to suppose that 
in parrying a thrust they blind our eyes.” 

“ The world sees always what it desires to see, Mr. 
Whitmonby.” 

“The world, my dear Mrs. Warwick, is a blundering 
machine upon its own affairs, but a cruel sleuth-hound to 
rouse in pursuit.” 

“ So now you have me chased by sight and scent. And 
if I take wing ? ” 

“Shots! volleys! — You are lawful game. The choice 
you have made of your friends, should oblige you to think 
of them.” 

“ I imagine I do. Have I offended any, or one ? ” 

“I will not say that. You know the commotion in a 
French kitchen when the guests of the house declined a 
particular dish furnished them by command. The cook 
and his crew were loyal to their master, but, for the love 
of their Art, they sent him notice. It is ill serving a mad 
sovereign.” 

Diana bowed to the compact little apologue. 

“ I will tell you another story, traditional in our family 
from my great-grandmother, a Spanish woman,” she said. 
* A cavalier serenaded his mistress, and rascal mercenarie 
fell upon' him before he could draw sword. He battere 


294 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


his guitar on their pates till the lattice opened with a cry, 
and startled them to flight. ‘ Thrice blessed and beloved ! ’ 
he called to her above, in reference to the noise, ‘ it was 
merely a diversion of the accompaniment.’ Now there 
was loyal service to a sovereign ! ” 

“You are certainly an angel!” exclaimed Whitmonby. 
“ I swallow the story, and leave it to digestion to discover 
the appositeness. VVhatever tuneful instrument one of 
your friends possesses shall solace your slumbers or batter 
the pate of your enemy. But discourage the habitual 
serenader.” 

“The musician you must mean is due here now, by 
appointment to meet you,” said Diana, and set him mo- 
mentarily agape with the name of Mr. Percy Dacier. 

That was the origin of the alliance between the young 
statesman and a newspaper editor. Whitmonby, accept- 
ing proposals which suited him, quitted the house, after an 
hour of political talk, no longer inclined to hint at the 
“habitual serenader,” but very ready to fall foul of those 
who did, as he proved when the numbers buzzed openly. 
Times were masculine; the excitement on the eve of so 
great a crisis, and Diana’s comprehension of it and fine 
heading cry, put that weak matter aside. Moreover, he 
was taught to suppose himself as welcome a guest as 
Dacier; and the cook could stand criticism; the wines — 
wonderful to say of a lady’s table — were trusty; the talk, 
on the political evenings and the social and anecdotal 
supper-nights, ran always in perfect accord with his ideal 
of the conversational orchestra: an improvized harmony, 
unmatched elsewhere. She did not, he considered, so per- 
fectly assort her dinner-guests; that was her one fault. 
She had therefore to strain her adroitness to cover their 
deficiencies and fuse them. But what other woman could 
have done it! She led superbly. If an Irishman was 
present, she kept him from overflooding, managed to ex- 
tract just the flavour of him, the smack of salt. She did 
even, at Whitmonby’s table, on a red-letter Sunday even- 
ing, in concert with him and the Dean, bring down that 
. cataract, the Bodleian, to the levels of interchanging dia- 
logue by seasonable touches, inimitably done, and never 
n 6ne before. Sullivan Smith, unbridled in the middle 


A LITTLE DINNER AND AN AFTERTASTE 295 


dinner, was docile to her. “Irishmen,” she said, pleading 
on their behalf to Whitmonby, who pronounced the race 
too raw for an Olympian feast, “ are invaluable if you hang 
them up to smoke and cure;” and the master of social 
converse could not deny that they were responsive to her 
magic. The supper-nights were mainly devoted to Percy’s 
friends. He brought as many as he pleased, and as often 
as it pleased him; and it was her pride to provide Cleopatra 
banquets for the lover whose anxieties were soothed by 
them, and to whom she sacrificed her name willingly in 
return for a generosity that certain chance whispers of her 
heart elevated to the pitch of measureless. 

So they wore through the Session and the Autumn, clouds 
heavier, the League drumming, the cry of Ireland “omi- 
nously Banshee,” as she wrote to Emma. 


CHAPTER XXX 

IN WHICH THERE IS A TASTE OF A LITTLE DINNER AND 
AN AFTERTASTE 

“But Tony lives!” Emma Dunstane cried, on her soli- 
tary height, with the full accent of envy marking the verb; 
and when she wrote enviously to her friend of the life 
among bright intelligences, and of talk worth hearing, it 
was a happy signification that health, frail though it might 
be, had grown importunate for some of the play of life. 
Diana sent her word to name her day, and she would have 
her choicest to meet her dearest. They were in the early 
days of December, not the best of times for improvized 
gatherings. Emma wanted, however, to taste them as they 
cropped; she was also, owing to her long isolation, timid 
at a notion of encountering the pick of the London world, 
prepared by Tony to behold “ a wonder more than worthy 
of them,” as her friend unadvisedly wrote. That was why 
she came unexpectedly, and for a mixture of reasons, went 
to an hotel. Fatality designed it so. She was reproached, 
but she said : “ You have to write or you entertain at ni^ht ; 


296 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


I should be a clog and fret you. My hotel is Maitland’s; 
excellent; I believe I am to lie on the pillow where a 
crowned head reposed! You will perceive that I am proud 
as well as comfortable. And I would rather meet your 
usual set of guests.” 

“ The reason why I have been entertaining at night is, 
that Percy is harassed and requires enlivening,” said 
Diana. “He brings his friends. My house is open to 
them, if it amuses him. What the world says, is pasta 
thought. I owe him too much.” 

Emma murmured that the world would soon be pacified. 

Diana shook her head. “The poor man is better; able 
to go about his affairs; and I am honestly relieved. It 
lays a spectre. As for me, I do not look ahead. I serve 
as a kind of secretary to Percy. I labour at making 
abstracts by day, and at night preside at my supper-table. 
You would think it monotonous; no incident varies the 
course we run. I have not time to ask whether it is hap- 
piness. It seems to bear a resemblance.” 

Emma replied: “He may be everything you tell me. 
He should not have chosen the last night of the Opera to 
go to your box and sit beside you till the fall of the cur- 
tain. The presence at the Opera of a man notoriously 
indifferent to music was enough in itself.” 

Diana smiled with languor. “You heard of that? But 
the Opera was The Puritani, my favourite. And he saw 
me sitting in Lady Pennon’s box alone. We were com- 
promised neck-deep already. I can kiss you, my own 
Emmy, till I die; but what the world says, is what the 
wind says. Besides he has his hopes. ... If I am black- 
ened ever so thickly, he can make me white. Dear me! 
if the world knew that he comes here almost nightly ! It 
will; and does it matter? I am his in soul; the rest is 
waste-paper — a half-printed sheet.” 

“ Provided he is worthy of such devotion ! ” 

“He is absolute worthiness. He is the prince of men; 
I dread to say, mine ! for fear. But Emmy will not judge 
him to-morrow by contrast with more voluble talkers. — I 
can do anything but read poetry now. That kills me! — 
See him through me. In nature, character, intellect, he 
has no rival. Whenever I despond — and it comes now 


A LITTLE DINNER AND AN AFTERTASTE 297 

and then — I rebuke myself with this one admonition: 
Simply to have known him! Admit that for a woman to 
find one who is worthy among the opposite creatures, is a 
happy termination of her quest, and in some sort dis- 
misses her to the Shades, an uncomplaining ferry-bird. 
If my end were at hand I should have no cause to lament 
it. We women miss life only when we have to confess we 
have never met the man to reverence.” 

Emma had to hear a very great deal of Mr. Percy. 
Diana’s comparison of herself to “the busy bee at a 
window-pane,” was more in her old manner; and her 
friend would have hearkened to the marvels of the gentle- 
man less unrefreshed, had it not appeared to her that her 
Tony gave in excess for what was given in return. She 
hinted her view. 

“It is expected of our sex,” Diana said. 

The work of busy bee at a window-pane had at any rate 
not spoilt her beauty, though she had voluntarily, profit- 
lessly, become this man’s drudge, and her sprightly fancy, 
her ready humour and darting look all round in discussion, 
were rather deadened. 

But the loss was not perceptible in the circle of her 
guests. Present at a dinner little indicating the last, were 
Whitmonby, in lively trim for shuffling, dealing, cutting, 
trumping or drawing trumps; Westlake, polishing epi- 
grams under his eyelids; Henry Wilmers, who timed an 
anecdote to strike as the passing hour without freezing 
the current; Sullivan Smith, smoked, cured and ready to 
flavour; Percy Dacier, pleasant listener, measured speaker; 
and young Arthur Rhodes, the neophyte of the hostess’s 
training; of whom she had said to Emma, “The dear boy 
very kindly serves to frank an unlicenced widow;” and 
whom she prompted and made her utmost of, with her 
natural tact. These she mixed and leavened. The talk 
was on high levels and low; an enchantment to Emma 
Dunstane: now a story; a question opening new routes: 
sharp sketches of known personages; a paradox shot by 
laughter as soon as uttered; and all so smoothly; not a 
shadow of the dominant holder-forth or a momentary pros- 
pect of dead flats; the mellow ring of appositeness being 
the concordant note of deliveries running linked as they 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


2ys 

flashed, and a tolerant philosophy of the sage in the world 
recurrently the keynote. 

Once only had Diana to protect her nurseling. He cited 
a funny line from a recent popular volume of verse, in 
perfect a propos, looking at Sullivan Smith; who replied, 
that the poets had become too many for him, and he read 
none now. Diana said: “There are many Alexanders, 
but Alexander of Macedon is not dwarfed by the number.” 
She gave him an opening for a smarter reply, but he lost 
it in a comment — against Whitmonby’s cardinal rule: 
“ The neatest turn of the wrist that ever swung a hero to 
crack a crown!” and he bowed to young Rhodes: “I'll 
read your versicler to-morrow morning early.” The latter 
expressed a fear that the hour was too critical for poetry. 

“I have taken the dose at a very early hour,” said 
Whitmonby, to bring conversation to the flow again, “and 
it effaced the critical mind completely.” 

“But did not silence the critical nose,” observed 
Westlake. 

Wilmers named the owner of the longest nose in 
Europe. 

“ Potentially, indeed a critic ! ” said Diana. 

“Nights beside it must be fearful, and good matter for 
a divorce, if the poor dear lady could hale it to the doors 
of the Vatican ! ” Sullivan Smith exclaimed. “ But there ’s 
character in noses.” 

“Calculable by inches?” Dacier asked. 

“More than in any other feature,” said Lady Dunstane. 
“The Riffords are all prodigiously gifted and amusing: 
suspendens omnia naso. It should be prayed for in 
families.” 

“Totum ut te faciant, Fabulle, nasum,” rejoined Whit- 
monby. “Lady Isabella was reading the tale of the 
German princess, who had a sentinel stationed some hun- 
dred yards away to whisk off the flies, and she owned to 
me that her hand instinctively travelled upward.” 

“Candour is the best concealment, when one has to carry 
a, saddle of absurdity,” said Diana. “Touchstone’s 4 poor 
thing, but mine own,’ is godlike in its enveloping fold.” 

“The most comforting sermon ever delivered on prop* 
erty in poverty,” said Arthur Rhodes. 


A LITTLE DINNER AND AN AFTERTASTE 299 


Westlake assented. “ His choice of Audrey strikes me 
as an exhibition of the sure instinct for pasture of the 
philosophical jester in a forest.” 

“With nature’s woman, if he can find her, the urban 
seems equally at home,” said Lady Dunstane. 

“ Baron Pawle is an example,” added Whitmonby. “ His 
cook is a pattern wife to him. I heard him say at table 
that she was responsible for all except the wines. ‘ I 
wouldn’t have them on my conscience, with a Judge! ’ my 
lady retorted.” 

“When poor Madame de Jacquieres was dying,” said 
Wilmers, “her confessor sat by her bedside, prepared for 
his ministrations. ‘ Pour commencer , mon ami , jamais je 
n’ai fais rien hors nature .’ ” 

Lord Wadaster had uttered something tolerably simi- 
lar: “I am a sinner, and in good society.” Sir Abraham 
Hartiston, a minor satellite of the Regent, diversified 
this: “I am a sinner, and go to good society.” Madame 
la Comtesse de la Roche- Aigle, the cause of many deaths, 
declared it unwomanly to fear anything save “ les reve- 
nants .” Yet the countess could say the pretty thing: 
“Foot on a flower, then think of me!” 

“Sentimentality puts up infant hands for absolution,” 
said Diana. 

“But tell me,” Lady Dunstane inquired generally, “why 
men are so much happier than women in laughing at their 
spouses? ” 

They are humaner, was one dictum; they are more 
frivolous, ironically another. 

“ It warrants them for blowing the bugle-horn of mascu- 
line superiority night and morning from the castle-walls,” 
Diana said. 

“I should imagine it is for joy of heart that they still 
have cause to laugh! ” said Westlake. 

On the other hand, are women really pained by having 
to laugh at their lords? Curious little speeches flying 
about the great world, affirmed the contrary. But the 
fair speakers were chartered libertines, and their laugh 
admittedly had a biting acid. The parasite is concerned 
in the majesty of the tree. 

“We have entered Botany Bay,” Diana said to Emma; 


300 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


who answered: “A metaphor is the Deus ex machine of 
an argument;” and Whitmonby, to lighten a shadow of 
heaviness, related allusively an anecdote of the Law- 
Courts. Sullivan Smith begged permission to “ black cap ” 
it with Judge FitzGerald’s sentence upon a convicted crim- 
inal: “Your plot was perfect but for One above.” Dacier 
cited an execrable impromptu line of the Chief of the 
Opposition in Parliament. The Premier, it was remarked, 
played him like an angler his fish on the hook; or say, Mr. 
Serjeant Rufus his witness in the box. 

“Or a French journalist an English missionary,” said 
Westlake; and as the instance was recent it was relished. 

The talk of Premiers offered Whitmonby occasion for a 
flight to the Court of Vienna and Kaunitz. Wilmers told 
a droll story of Lord Busby’s missing the Embassy there. 
Westlake furnished a sample of the tranquil sententious- 
ness of Busby’s brother Robert during a stormy debate in 
the House of Commons. 

“I remember,” Dacier was reminded, “hearing him say, 
when the House resembled a Chartist riot, ‘ Let us stand 
aside and meditate on Life. If Youth could know, in the 
season of its reaping of the Pleasures, that it is but sowing 
Doctor’s bills! ’ ” 

Latterly a malady had supervened, and Bob Busby had 
retired from the universal to the special ; — his mysterious 
case. 

“ Assure him, that is endemic. He may be cured of his 
desire for the exposition of it,” said Lady Dunstane. 

Westlake chimed with her: “Yes, the charm in dis- 
coursing of one’s case is over when the individual appears 
no longer at odds with Providence.” 

“ But then we lose our Tragedy,” said Whitmonby. 

“ Our Comedy too,” added Diana. “ We must consent to 
be Busbied for the sake of the instructive recreations.” 

“A curious idea, though,” said Sullivan Smith, “that 
some of the grand instructive figures were in their day 
colossal bores! ” 

“So you see the marvel of the poet’s craft at last?” 
Diana smiled on him, and he vowed: “I’ll read nothing 
else for a month.” Young Rhodes bade him beware of a 
deluge in proclaiming it. _ _ 


A LITTLE DINNER AND AN AFTERTASTE 801 

They rose from table at ten, with the satisfaction of 
knowing that they had not argued, had not wrangled, had 
never stagnated, and were digestingly refreshed; as it 
should be among grown members of the civilized world, 
who mean to practise philosophy, making the hour of the 
feast a balanced recreation and a regeneration of body and 
mind. 

“Evenings like these are worth a pilgrimage,” Emma 
said, embracing Tony outside the drawing-room door. “I 
am so glad I came: and if I am strong enough, invite me 
again in the Spring. To-morrow early I start for Copsley, 
to escape this London air. I shall hope to have you there 
soon.” 

She was pleased by hearing Tony ask her whether she 
did not think that Arthur Rhodes had borne himself well; 
for it breathed of her simply friendly soul. 

The gentlemen followed Lady Dunstane in a troop, 
Dacier yielding perforce the last adieu to young Rhodes. 

Five minutes later Diana was in her dressing-room, 
where she wrote at night, on the rare occasions now when 
she was left free for composition. Beginning to dwell on 
The Man of Two Minds, she glanced at the woman like- 
wise divided, if not similarly; and she sat brooding. She 
did not accuse her marriage of being the first fatal step : 
her error was the step into Society without the wherewithal 
to support her position there. Girls of her kind, airing 
their wings above the sphere of their birth, are cryingly 
adventuresses. As adventuresses they are treated. Vain 
to be shrewish with the world! Rather let us turn and 
scold our nature for ineffectively rushing to the cream and 
honey ! Had she subsisted on her small income in a coun- 
try cottage, this task of writing would have been holiday. 
Or better, if, as she preached to Mary Paynham, she had 
apprenticed herself to some productive craft. The sim- 
plicity of the life of labour looked beautiful. What will 
not look beautiful contrasted with the fly in the web ? 
She had chosen to be one of the flies of life. 

Instead of running to composition, her mind was elo- 
quent with a sermon to Arthur Rhodes, in Redworth’s 
vein; more sympathetically, of course. “For I am not 
one of the lecturing Mammonites 1 ” she could say. 


302 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


She was far from that. Penitentially, in the thick of 
her disdain of the arrogant money-getters, she pulled out 
a drawer where her bank-book lay, and observed it con 
templatively ; jotting down a reflection before the dread 
book of facts was opened : “ Gaze on the moral path you 
should have taken, you are asked for courage to commit a 
sanctioned suicide, by walking back to it stripped — a 
skeleton self.” She sighed forth : “ But I have no courage : 
I never had ! 

The book revealed its tale in a small pencilled compu- 
tation of the bank-clerk’s, on the peccant side. Credit 
presented many pages blanks. She seemed to have with- 
drawn from the struggle with such a partner. 

It signified an immediate appeal to the usurers, unless 
the publisher could be persuaded, with three parts of the 
book in his hands, to come to the rescue. Work ! roared 
old Debit, the sinner turned slavedriver. 

Diana smoothed her wrists, compressing her lips not to 
laugh at the simulation of an attitude of combat. She 
took up her pen. 

And strange to think, she could have flowed away at 
once on the stuff that Danvers delighted to read! — wicked 
princes, rogue noblemen, titled wantons, daisy and lily 
innocents, traitorous marriages, murders, a gallows dang- 
ling a corpse dotted by a moon, and a woman bowed be- 
neath. She could have written, with the certainty that in 
the upper and the middle as well as in the lower classes 
of the country, there would be a multitude to read that 
stuff, so cordially, despite the gaps between them, are 
they one in their literary tastes. And why should they 
not read it ? Her present mood was a craving for excite- 
ment; for incident, wild action, the primitive machinery 
of our species; any amount of theatrical heroics, pathos, 
and clown-gabble. A panorama of scenes came sweeping 
round her. 

She was, however, harnessed to a different kind of 
vehicle, and had to drag it. The sound of the house-door 
shutting, imagined perhaps, was a fugitive distraction. 
Now to animate The Man of Two Minds! 

He is courting, but he is burdened with the task of 
tasks. He has an ideal of womanhood and of the union 


GREAT POLITICAL NEWS 


303 


of couples: a delicacy extreme as his attachment: and he 
must induce the lady to school herself to his ideal, not 
allowing her to suspect him less devoted to her person; 
while she, an exacting idol, will drink any quantity of 
idealization as long as he starts it from a full acceptance 
of her acknowledged qualities. Diana could once have 
tripped the scene along airily. She stared at the opening 
sentence, a heavy bit of moralized manufacture, fit to yoke 
beside that on her view of her bank-book. 

“It has come to this — I have no head,” she cried. 

And is our public likely to muster the slightest taste for 
comic analysis that does not tumble to farce? The doubt 
reduced her whole MS. to a leaden weight, composed for 
sinking. Percy’s addiction to burlesque was a further 
hindrance, for she did not perceive how her comedy could 
be strained to gratify it. 

There was a knock, and Danvers entered. 

“You have apparently a liking for late hours,” observed 
her mistress. “ I told you to go to bed.” 

“It is Mr. Dacier,” said Danvers. 

“He wishes to see me?” 

“Yes, ma’am. He apologized for disturbing you.” 

“He must have some good reason.” 

What could it be! Diana’s glass approved her appear- 
ance. She pressed the black swell of hair above her 
temples, rather amazed, curious, inclined to a beating of 
the heart. 


CHAPTER XXXI 

A CHAPTER CONTAINING GREAT POLITICAL NEWS AND 
THEREWITH AN INTRUSION OF THE LOVE-GOD. 

Dacier was pacing about the drawing-room, as in a place 
too narrow for him. 

Diana stood at the door. “Have you forgotten to tejj 
me anything I ought to know? ” 

He came up to her and shut the door softly behind her, 
holding her hand. “You are near it. I returned . . . 


304 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


But tell me first: — You were slightly under a shadow this 
evening, dejected.” 

“Did I show it ? ” 

She was growing a little suspicious, but this cunning 
touch of lover-like interest dispersed the shade. 

“To me you did.” 

“It was unpardonable to let it be seen.” 

“No one else could have observed it.” 

Her woman’s heart was thrilled ; for she had concealed 
the dejection from Emma. 

“It was nothing,” she said; “a knot in the book I am 
writing. We poor authors are worried now and then. 
But you? ” 

His face rippled by degrees brightly , to excite a reflec- 
tion in hers. 

“Shall I tune you with good news? I think it will 
excuse me for coming back.” 

“Very good news ? ” 

“Brave news, as far as it goes.” 

“ Then it concerns you ! ” 

“Me, you, the country.” 

“Oh! do I guess?” cried Diana. “But speak, pray; I 
burn.” 

“ What am I to have for telling it ? ” 

“Put no price. You know my heart. I guess — or 
fancy. It relates to your Chief ? ” 

Dacier smiled in a way to show the lock without the 
key ; and she was insensibly drawn nearer to him , specu- 
lating on the smile. 

“Try again,” said he, keenly appreciating the blindness 
to his motive of her studious dark eyes, and her open- 
lipped breathing. 

“ Percy ! I must be right.” 

“ Well, you are. He has decided ! ” 

“ Oh ! that is the bravest possible. When did you hear? ” 

“He informed me of his final decision this afternoon.” 

“And you were charged with the secret all the evening, 
and betrayed not a sign ! I compliment the diplomatic 
statesman. But when will it be public?” 

“ He calls Parliament together the first week of next 
month.” 


GREAT POLITICAL KEW3 


805 


“The proposal is — ? No more compromises I n 

“Total!” 

Diana clapped hands; and her aspect of enthusiasm was 
intoxicating. “ He is a wise man and a gallant Minister ! 
And while you were reading me through, I was blind to 
you,” she added meltingly. 

“ I have not made too much of it ? ” said he. 

“Indeed you have not.” 

She was radiant with her dark lightnings, yet visibly 
subject to him under the spell of the news he had artfully 
lengthened out to excite and overbalance her : — and her 
enthusiasm was all pointed to his share in the altered 
situation, as he well knew and was flattered in knowing. 

“ So Tony is no longer dejected ? I thought I could 
freshen you and get my excuse.” 

“ Oh ! a high wind will make a dead leaf fly like a bird. 
I soar. Now I do feel proud. I have longed for it — to 
have you leading the country : not tugged at like a waggon 
with a treble team uphill. We two are a month in advance 
of all England. You stand by him ? — only to hear it, for 
I am sure of it ! ” 

“We stand or fall together.” 

Her glowing look doated on the faithful lieutenant. 

“And if the henchman is my hero I am but a waiting- 
woman. But I must admire his leader.” 

“ Tony ! ” 

“Ah! no,” she joined her hands, wondering whither 
her armed majesty had fled; “no softness! no payments ! 
Flatter me by letting me think you came to a head — not 
a silly woman’s heart, with one name on it, as it has not 
to betray. I have been frank; you need no proofs ...” 
The supplicating hands left her figure an easy prey to the 
storm, and were crushed in a knot on her bosom. She 
could only shrink. “Ah! Percy . . . you undo my praise 
of you — my pride in receiving you.” 

They were speechless perforce. 

“ You see, Tony, my dearest, I am flesh and blood after 
all.” 

“You drive me to be ice and door-bolts!” 

Her eyes broke over him reproachfully. 

“It is not so much to grant,” he murmured. 

2P 


306 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“It changes everything between us.” 

“Not me. It binds me the faster.” 

“It makes me a loathsome hypocrite.” 

“ But, Tony ! is it so much- ? ” 

“Not if you value it low.” 

“ But how long do you keep me in this rag-puppet’s stato 
of suspension ? ” 

“Patience.” 

“ Dangling and swinging day and night ! ” 

“The rag-puppet shall be animated and repaid if I have 
life. I wish to respect my hero. Have a little mercy. 
Our day will come : perhaps as wonderfully as this won- 
derful news. My friend, drop your hands. Have you 
forgotten who I am ? I want to think, Percy ! ” 

“ But you are mine.” 

“You are abasing your own.” 

“No, by heaven ! ” 

“ Worse, dear friend ; you are lowering yourself to the 
woman who loves you.” 

“ You must imagine me superhuman.” 

“I worship you — or did.” 

“Be reasonable, Tony. What harm! Surely a trifle of 
recompense ? Just to let me feel I live ! You own you 
love me. Then L am your lover.” 

“My dear friend Percy, when I have consented to be 
your paramour, this kind of treatment of me will not want 
apologies.” 

The plain speaking from the wound he dealt her was 
effective with a gentleman who would never have enjoyed 
his privileges had he been of a nature unsusceptible to her 
distinct wish and meaning. 

He sighed. “You know how my family bother me. 
The woman I want, the only woman I could marry, I 
can’t have.” 

“ You have her in soul.” 

“ Body and soul, it must be ! I believe you were made 
without fire,” 

“Perhaps. The element is omitted with some of us* 
happily, some think. Now we can converse. There seems 
to be a measurement of distances required before men and 
women have a chance with their brains ; — or before a man 


GREAT POLITICAL NEWS 307 

will understand that he can be advised and seconded 
When will the Cabinet be consulted?” 

“ Oh, a few days. Promise me . . .” 

“ Any honourable promise ! ” 

“ You will not keep me waiting longer than the end of 
the Session ? ” 

“ Probably there will be an appeal to the country.” 

“ In any case, promise me : have some compassion.” 

“ Ah, the compassion ! You do not choose your words, 
Percy, or forget who is the speaker.” 

“ It is Tony who forgets the time she has kept her lover 
dangling. Promise, and I will wait.” 

“ You hurt my hand, sir.” 

“ I could crack the knuckles. Promise ! * 

“ Come to me to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow you are in your armour — triple brass ! All 
creation cries out for now. We are mounted on barbs and 
you talk of ambling.” 

“ Arthur Rhodes might have spoken that.” 

“ Rhodes ! ” he shook off the name in disgust. “Pet him 
as much as you like ; don’t . . he was unable to phrase 
his objection. 

She cooled him further with eulogies of the cheva- 
leresque manner of speaking which young Mr. Rhodes 
could assume ; till for very wrath of blood — not jealousy : 
he had none of any man, with her ; and not passion ; the 
little he had was a fitful gust — he punished her coldness 
by taking what hastily could be gathered. 

Her shape was a pained submission ; and she thought : 
Where is the woman who ever knows a man ! — as women 
do think when one of their artifices of evasion with a lover, 
or the trick of imposingness, has apparently been subduing 
him. But the pain was less than previously, for she was 
now mistress of herself, fearing no abysses. 

Dacier released her quickly, saying : “ If I come to-mor- 
row, shalJ I have the promise ?” 

She answered : “ Be sure I shall not lie.” 

“ Why not let me have it before I go ? ” 

“My friend, to tell you the truth, you have utterly dis* 
tracted me.” 

“ Forgive me if I did hurt your hand.” 


808 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“The hand ? You might strike it off.” 

“ I can’t be other than a mortal lover, Tony. There 9 8 
the fact.” 

“No; the fault is mine when I am degraded. I trust 
you : there ’s the error.” 

The trial for Dacier was the sight of her quick-lifting 
bosom under the mask of cold language : an attraction and 
repulsion in union ; a delirium to any lover impelled to 
trample on weak defences. But the evident pain he in- 
flicted moved his pity, which helped to restore his concep- 
tion of the beauty of her character. She stood so nobly 
meek. And she was never prudish, only self-respecting. 
Although the great news he imparted had roused an ardent 
thirst for holiday and a dash out of harness, and he could 
hardly check it, he yielded her the lead. 

“ Trust me you may,” he said. “ But you know we are 
one. The world has given you to me, me to you. Why 
should we be asunder ? There ’s no reason in it.” 

She replied : “ But still I wish to burn a little incense in 
honour of myself, or else I cannot live. It is the truth. 
You make Death my truer friend, and at this moment I 
would willingly go out. You would respect me more dead 
than alive. I could better pardon you too.” 

He pleaded for the red mouth’s pardon, remotely irri- 
tated by the suspicion that she swayed him overmuch : and 
he had deserved the small benevolences and donations of 
love, crumbs and heavenly dews ! 

“Not a word of pardon,” said Diana. “I shall never 
count an iota against you ‘in the dark backward and 
abysm of Time.’ This news is great, and I have sunk 
beneath it. Come to-morrow. Then we will speak upon 
whatever you can prove rational. The hour is getting 
late.” 

Dacier took a draught of her dark beauty with the 
crimson he had kindled over the cheeks. Her lips were 
firmly closed, her eyes grave; dry, but seeming to Waver 
tearfully in their heavy fulness. He could not doubt her 
love of him; and although chafing at the idea that she 
swayed him absurdly — beyond the credible in his world of 
wag-tongues — he resumed his natural soberness, as a gar- 
ment, not very uneasily fitting: whence it ensued — foi 


A GIDDY TURN AT THE SPECTRAL CROSSWAYS 309 

so are we influenced by the garb we put on us — that his 
manly sentiment of revolt in being condemned to play 
second, was repressed by the refreshment breathed on him 
from her lofty character, the pure jewel proffered to his 
inward ownership. 

“ Adieu for the night,” he said, and she smiled. He 
pressed for a pressure of her hand. She brightened her 
smile instead, and said only : “ Good night, Percy.” 


CHAPTER XXXTI 

WHEREIN WE BEHOLD A GIDDY TURN AT THE SPECTRA L 
CROSSWAYS 

Danvers accompanied Mr. Dacier to the house-door. 
Climbing the stairs, she found her mistress in the drawing- 
room still. 

“You must be cold, ma’am, ” she said, glancing at the 
fire-grate. 

“ Is it a frost ? ” said Diana. 

“It's midnight and midwinter, ma'am.” 

“ Has it struck midnight ? ” 

The mantel-piece clock said five minutes past. 

“ You had better go to bed, Danvers, or you will lose 
your bloom. Stop ; you are a faithful soul. Great things 
are happening and I am agitated. Mr. Dacier has told me 
news. He came back purposely.” 

“Yes, nia’am,” said Danvers. “He had a great deal to 
tell ? ” 

“Well, he had.” Diana coloured at the first tentative 
impertinence she had heard from her maid. “What is the 
secret of you, Danvers ? What attaches you to me ? ” 

“ I ’m sure I don’t know, ma’am. I ’m romantic.” 

“ And you think me a romantic object?” 

“ I ’m sure I can’t say, ma’am. I ’d rather serve you than 
any other lady j and I wish you was happy.” 

“ Do you suppose I am unhappy ? ” 


310 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ I 'm sure — but if I may speak, ma'am ; so handsome 
and clever a lady ! and young ! I can’t bear to see it.” 

“Tush, you silly woman. You read your melting tales, 
and imagine. I must go and write for money: it is mj 
profession. And I haven't an idea in my head. This 
news disturbs me. Ruin if I don’t write ; so I must. — I 
»an’t ! " 

Diana beheld the ruin. She clasped the great news for 
succour. Great indeed : and known but to her of all the 
outer world. She was ahead of all — ahead of Mr. Tonans ! 

The visionary figure of Mr. Tonans petrified by the 
great news, drinking it, and confessing her ahead of him 
in the race for secrets, arose toweringly. She had not ever 
seen the Editor in his den at midnight. With the rumble 
of his machinery about him, and fresh matter arriving and 
flying into the printing-press, it must be like being in the 
very furnace-hissing of Events : an Olympian Council held 
in Vulcan’s smithy. Consider the bringing to the Jove 
there news of such magnitude as to stupefy him ! He, too, 
who had admonished her rather sneeringly for staleness in 
her information. But this news, great though it was, and 
throbbing like a heart plucked out of a breathing body, 
throbbed but for a brief term, a day or two ; after which, 
great though it was, immense, it relapsed into a common 
organ, a possession of the multitude, merely historically 
curious. 

“ You are not afraid of the streets at night ? " Diana 
said to her maid, as they were going upstairs. 

“ Not when we 're driving, ma’am," was the answer. 

The Man of Two Minds faced his creatrix in the 
dressing-room, still delivering that most ponderous of sen- 
tences — a smothering pillow ! 

I have mistaken my vocation, thought Diana: I am 
certainly the flattest proser who ever penned a line. 

She sent Danvers into the bedroom on a trifling errand, 
unable to bear the woman’s proximity, and oddly unwilling 
to dismiss her. 

She pressed her hands on her eyelids. Would Percy 
have humiliated her so if he had respected her ? He took 
advantage of the sudden loss of her habitual queenly initia- 
tive at the wonderful news to debase and stain their inti* 


A GIDDY TURN AT THE SPECTRAL CROSSWAYS 311 

macy. The lover’s behaviour was judged by her sensa- 
tions : she felt humiliated, plucked violently from the 
throne where she had long been sitting securely, very 
proudly. That was at an end. If she was to be better than 
the loathsomest of hypocrites, she must deny him his 
admission to the house. And then what was her life ! 

Something that was pressing her low, she knew not how, 
and left it unquestioned, incited her to exaggerate the 
indignity her pride had suffered. She was a dethroned 
woman. Deeper within, an unmasked actress, she said. 
Oh, she forgave him ! But clearly he took her for the same 
as other women consenting to receive a privileged visitor. 
And sounding herself to the soul, was she so magnificently 
better ? Her face flamed. She hugged her arms at her 
breast to quiet the beating, and dropped them when she 
surprised herself embracing the memory. He had brought 
political news, and treated her as — name the thing ! Not 
designedly, it might be : her position invited it. “ The 
world had given her to him.” The world is always a 
prophet of the mire ; but the world is no longer an utterly 
mistaken world. She shook before it. 

She asked herself why Percy or the world should think 
highly of an adventuress, who was a denounced wife, a 
wretched author, and on the verge of bankruptcy. She was 
an adventuress. When she held The Crossways she had 
at least a bit of solid footing: now gone. An adventu- 
ress without an idea in her head: witness her dullard, 
The Man of Two Minds, at his work of sermonizing his 
mistress. 

The tremendous pressure upon our consciousness of the 
material cause, when we find ourselves cast among the 
breakers of moral difficulties and endeavour to elude that 
mud-visaged monster, chiefly by feigning unconsciousness, 
was an experience of Diana’s, in the crisis to which she was 
wrought. Her wits were too acute, her nature too direct, 
to permit of a lengthened confusion. She laid the scourge 
on her flesh smartly. — I gave him these privileges because 
I am weak as the weakest, base as my enemies proclaim 
me. I covered my woman’s vile weakness with an air of 
intellectual serenity that he, choosing his moment, tore 
«way, exposing me to myself, as well as to him, the most 


312 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


ordinary of reptiles. I kept up a costly household for the 
sole purpose of seeing him and having him near me. 
Hence this bitter need of money! — Either it must be 
money or disgrace. Money would assist her quietly to 
amend and complete her work. Yes, and this want of 
money, in a review of the last two years, was the material 
cause of her recklessness. It was, her revived and uprising 
pudency declared, the principal, the only cause. Mere 
want of money. 

And she had a secret worth thousands ! The secret of a 
day, no more : anybody’s secret after some four and twenty 
hours. 

She smiled at the fancied elongation and stare of the 
features of Mr. Tonans in his editorial midnight den. 

What if he knew it and could cap it with something 
novel and stranger ? Hardly. But it was an inciting 
suggestion. 

She began to tremble as a lightning-flash made visible 
her fortunes recovered, disgrace averted, hours of peace for 
composition stretching before her: a summer afternoon’s 
vista. 

It seemed a duel between herself and Mr. Tonans, and 
she sure of her triumph — Diana victrix I 

“ Danvers ! ” she called. 

“ Is it to undress, ma’am ? ” said the maid, entering to 
her. 

“ You are not afraid of the streets, you tell me. I have 
go down to the City, I think. It is urgent. Yes, I 
must go. If I were to impart the news to you, your head 
would be a tolling bell for a month.” 

“ You will take a cab, ma’am.” 

“ We must walk out to find one. I must go, though I 
should have to go on foot. Quick with bonnet and shawl ; 
muffle up warmly. We have never been out so late: but 
does it matter ? You ’re a brave soul, I J m sure, and you 
shall have your fee.” 

“ I don’t care for money, ma’am.” 

“ When we get home, you shall kiss me.” 

Danvers clothed her mistress in furs and rich wrappings : 
Not paid for ! was Diana’s desperate thought, and a wrong 
one ; but she had to seem the precipitated bankrupt and 


A GIDDY TURN AT THE SPECTRAL CROSSWAYS 313 

Bucceeded. She was near being it. The boiling of hei 
secret carried her through the streets rapidly and unobser- 
vantly except of such small things as the glow of the lights 
on the pavements and the hushed cognizance of the houses, 
in silence to a thoroughfare where a willing cabman was 
met. The destination named, he nodded alertly: he had 
driven gentlemen there at night from the House of Com- 
mons, he said. 

“ Our Parliament is now sitting, and you drive ladies,” 
Diana replied. 

“ I hope I know one, never mind the hour,” said he of 
the capes. 

He was bidden to drive rapidly. 

“ Complexion a tulip : you do not often see a pale cab- 
man,” she remarked to Danvers, who began laughing, as 
she always expected to do on an excursion with her 
mistress. 

“ Do you remember, ma’am, the cabman taking us to the 
coach, when you thought of going to the continent ? ” 

“And I went to The Crossways? I have forgotten 
him.” 

“ He declared you was so beautiful a lady he would drive 
you to the end of England for nothing.” 

“ It must have been when I was paying him. Put it out 
of your mind, Danvers, that there are individual cabmen. 
They are the painted flowers of our metropolitan thorough- 
fares, and we gather them in rows.” 

“They have their feelings, ma’am.” 

“ Brandied feelings are not pathetic to me.” 

“ I like to think kindly of them,” Danvers remarked, in 
reproof of her inhumanity ; adding : “ They may overturn 
us ! ” at which Diana laughed. 

Her eyes were drawn to a brawl of women and men in 
the street. “ Ah ! that miserable sight ! ” she cried. “ It 
is the everlasting nightmare of London.” 

Danvers humped, femininely injured by the notice of it. 
She wondered her mistress should deign to. 

Rolling on between the blind and darkened houses, 
Diana transferred her sensations to them, and in a fit of 
the nerves imagined them beholding a funeral convoy with- 
out followers. 


314 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


They came in view of the domed cathedral, hearing, in 
a pause of the wheels, the bell of the hour. “ Faster! 
faster ! my dear man,” Diana murmured, and they entered 
a small still square of many lighted windows. 

“ This must be where the morrow is manufactured,” 
she said. “Tell the man to wait. — Or rather it’s the 
mirror of yesterday: we have to look backward to see 
forward in life.” 

She talked her cool philosophy to mask her excitement 
from herself. 

Her card, marked: “ Imperative — two minutes” was 
taken up to Mr. Tonans. They ascended to the editorial 
ante-room. Doors opened and shut, hasty feet traversed 
the corridors, a dull hum in dumbness told of mighty 
business at work. Diana received the summons to the 
mighty head of the establishment. Danvers was left to 
speculate. She heard the voice of Mr. Tonans: “Not 
more than two ! ” This was not a place for compliments. 
Men passed her, hither and yonder, cursorily noticing the 
presence of a woman. She lost, very strangely to her, 
the sense of her sex and became an object — a disregarded 
object. Things of more importance were about. Her 
feminine self-esteem was troubled ; all idea of attractiveness 
expired. Here was manifestly a spot where women had 
dropped from the secondary to the cancelled stage of their 
extraordinary career in a world either blowing them aloft 
like soap-bubbles or quietly shelving them as supernu- 
meraries. A gentleman — sweet vision! — shot by to 
the editor’s door, without even looking cursorily. He 
knocked. Mr. Tonans appeared and took him by the arm, 
dictating at a great rate ; perceived Danvers, frowned at 
the female, and requested him to wait in the room, which 
the gentleman did, not once casting eye upon a woman. 
At last her mistress returned to her, escorted so far by 
Mr. Tonans, and he refreshingly bent his back to bow over 
her hand : so we have the satisfaction of knowing that we 
are not such poor creatures after all ! Suffering in person, 
Danvers was revived by the little show of homage to her 
sex. 

They descended the stairs. 

“ You are not an Editor of a paper, but you may boast 


THE SPRINGING OF A MINE 


315 


that you have been near the nest of one,” Diana said, 
when they resumed their seats in the cab. She breathed 
deeply from time to time, as if under a weight, or relieved 
of it, but she seemed animated, and she dropped now and 
again a funny observation or the kind that tickled Danvers 
and caused the maid to boast of her everywhere as better 
fchan a Play. 

At home, Danvers busied her hands to supply her mis- 
tress a cup of refreshing tea and a plate of biscuits. Diana 
had stunned herself with the strange weight of the expedi- 
tion, and had not a thought. In spite of tea at that hour, 
she slept soundly through the remainder of the night, 
dreamlessly till late into the morning. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

EXHIBITS THE SPRINGING OF A MINE IN A NEWSPAPER 
ARTICLE 

The powers of harmony would seem to be tried to their 
shrewdest pitch when Politics and Love are planted together 
* in a human breast. This apparently opposite couple can 
nevertheless chant a very sweet accord, as was shown by 
Dacier on his homeward walk from Diana’s house. Let 
Love lead, the God will make music of any chamber-com- 
rade. He was able to think of affairs of State while feel- 
ing the satisfied thirst of the lover whose pride, irritated 
by confidential wild eulogies of the beautiful woman, had 
recently clamoured for proofs of his commandership. The 
impression she stamped on him at Copsley remained, but 
it could not occupy the foreground for ever. He did not 
object to play second to her sprightly wits in converse^ if 
he had some warm testimony to his mastery over lier 
blood. For the world had given her to him, enthusiastic 
friends had congratulated him : she had exalted him for 
true knightliness ; and he considered the proofs well earned, 
though he did not value them low. They were little by 
comparison. They lighted, instead of staining, her unpar- 
alleled high character. 


616 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


She loved him. Full surely did she love him, or such 
a woman would never have consented to brave the world; 
once in their project of flight, and next, even more endear- 
ingly when contemplated, in the sacrifice of her good name ; 
not omitting that fervent memory of her pained submission, 
but a palpitating submission, to his caress. She was in his 
arms again at the thought of it. He had melted her, and 
won the confession of her senses by a surprise, and he 
owned that never had woman been so vigilantly self- 
guarded or so watchful to keep her lover amused and 
aloof. Such a woman deserved long service. But then 
the long service deserved its time of harvest. Her surging 
look of reproach in submission pointed to the golden time, 
and as he was a man of honour, pledged to her for life, he 
had no remorse, and no scruple in determining to exact her 
dated promise, on this occasion deliberately. She was the 
woman to be his wife ; she was his mind’s mate : they had 
hung apart in deference to mere scruples too long. During 
the fierce battle of the Session she would be his help, his 
fountain of counsel ; and she would be the rosy gauze-veiled 
more than cold helper and adviser, the being which would 
spur her womanly intelligence to acknowledge, on this 
occasion deliberately, the wisdom of the step. They had 
been so close to it ! She might call it madness then : now 
it was wisdom. Each had complete experience of the other, 
and each vowed tha step must be taken. 

As to the secret communicated, he exulted in the pardon- 
able cunning of the impulse turning him back to her house 
after the guests had gone, and the dexterous play of his 
bait on the line, tempting her to guess and quit her queenly 
guard. Though it had not been distinctly schemed, the 
review of it in that light added to the enjoyment. It had 
been dimly and richly conjectured as a hoped result. Small 
favours from her were really worth, thrice worth, the 
utmost from other women. They tasted the sweeter for 
the winning of them artfully — an honourable thing in 
love. Nature, rewarding the lover’s ingenuity and enter* 
prise, inspires him with old Greek notions of right and 
wrong : and love is indeed a fluid mercurial realm, continu- 
ally shifting the principles of rectitude and larceny. As 


THE SPRINGING OF A MINE 


317 


long as he means nobly, what is there to condemn him ? 
Not she in her heart. She was the presiding divinity. 

And she, his Tony, that splendid Diana, was the woman 
the world abused ! Whom will it not abuse ? 

The slough she would have to plunge in before he could 
make her his own with the world’s consent, was already up 
to her throat. She must, and without further hesitation, 
be steeped, that he might drag her out, washed of the 
imputed defilement, and radiant, as she was in character. 
Reflection now said this ; not impulse. 

Her words rang through him. At every meeting she said 
things to confound his estimate of the wits of women, or be 
remembered for some spirited ring they had : — A high 
wind will make a dead leaf fly like a bird. He murmured 
it and flew with her. She quickened a vein of imagination 
that gave him entrance to a strangely brilliant sphere, above 
his own, where, she sustaining, he too could soar; and he 
did, scarce conscious of walking home, undressing, falling 
asleep. 

The act of waking was an instantaneous recovery of his 
emotional rapture of the overnight ; nor was it a bar to 
graver considerations. His Chief had gone down to a 
house in the country ; his personal business was to see and 
sound the followers of their party — after another sight of 
his Tony. She would be sure to counsel sagaciously ; she 
always did. She had a marvellous intuition of the natures 
of the men he worked with, solely from his chance descrip- 
tions of them : it was as though he started the bird and she 
transfixed it. And she should not have matter to ruffle her 
smooth brows : that he swore to. She should sway him as 
she pleased, be respected after her prescribed manner. The 
promise must be exacted ; nothing besides the promise. — 
You see, Tony, you cannot be less than Tony to me now, 
he addressed the gentle phantom of her. Let me have your 
word, and I am your servant till the Session ends. — Tony 
blushes her swarthy crimson : Diana, fluttering, rebukes her ; 
but Diana is the appeasable Goddess ; Tony is the woman, 
and she loves him. The glorious Goddess need not cut them 
adrift ; they can show her a book of honest pages. 

Dacier could truthfully say he had worshipped, done 
knightly service to the beloved woman, homage to the 


318 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


aureole encircling her. Those friends of his, covertly 
congratulating him on her preference, doubtless thought 
him more privileged than he was ; but they did not know 
Diana ; and they were welcome, if they would only believe, 
to the knowledge that he was at the feet of this most sover- 
eign woman. He despised the particular Satyr-world which, 
whatever the nature or station of the woman, crowns the 
desecrator, and bestows the title of Fool on the worshipper. 
He could have answered veraciously that she had kept him 
from folly. 

Nevertheless the term to service must come. In the 
assurance of the approaching term he stood braced against 
a blowing world ; happy as men are when their muscles are 
strung for a prize they pluck with the energy and aim of 
their whole force. 

Letters and morning papers were laid for him to peruse 
in his dressing-room. He read his letters before the bath. 
Not much public news was expected at the present season. 
While dressing, he turned over the sheets of Whitmonby’s 
journal. Dull comments on stale tidings. Foreign news, 
Home news, with the leaders on them, identically dull. 
Behold the effect of Journalism: a witty man, sparkling 
overnight, gets into his pulpit and proses ; because he must 
say something, and he really knows nothing. Journalists 
have an excessive overestimate of their influence. They 
cannot, as Diana said, comparing them with men on the 
Parliamentary platform, cannot feel they are aboard the 
big vessel ; they can only strive to raise a breeze, or find 
one to swell ; and they cannot measure the stoutness or the 
greatness of the good ship England. Dacier’s personal 
ambition was inferior to his desire to extend and strengthen 
his England. Parliament was the field, Government the 
office. How many conversations had passed between him 
and Diana on that patriotic dream ! She had often filled 
his drooping sails ; he owned it proudly : — and while the 
world, both the hoofed and the rectilinear portions, were 
biting at her character ! Had he fretted her self-respect ? 
He blamed himself, but a devoted service must have its 
term. 

The paper of Mr. Tonans was reserved for perusal at 
breakfast. He reserved it because Tonans was an opponent, 


THE SPRINGING OF A MINE 


319 


tricksy and surprising now and then, amusing too ; unlikely 
to afford him serious reflections. The recent endeavours of 
his journal to whip the Government-team to a right-about- 
face were annoying, preposterous. Dacier had admitted 
to Diana that Tonans merited the thanks of the country 
during the discreditable Railway mania, when his articles 
had a fine exhortative and prophetic twang, and had done 
marked good. Otherwise, as regarded the Ministry, the 
veering gusts of Tonans were objectionable : he “ raised the 
breeze ” wantonly as well as disagreeably. Anyone can 
whip up the populace if he has the instruments ; and 
Tonans frequently intruded on the Ministry’s prerogative 
to govern. The journalist was bidding against the states- 
man. But such is the condition of a rapidly Radicalizing 
country I We must take it as it is. 

With a complacent, What now, Dacier fixed his indifferent 
eyes on the first column of the leaders. 

He read, and his eyes grew horny. He jerked back at 
each sentence, electrified, staring. The article was shorter 
than usual. Total Repeal was named; the precise date 
when the Minister intended calling Parliament together to 
propose it. The “ Total Repeal ” might be guess-work — 
an editor’s bold stroke : but the details, the date, were 
significant of positive information. The Minister’s definite 
and immediate instructions were exactly stated. 

Where could the fellow have got hold of that ? Dacier 
asked the blank ceiling. 

He frowned at vacant corners of the room in an effort to 
conjure some speculation indicative of the source. 

Had his Chief confided the secret to another and a 
traitor? Had they been overheard in his library when 
the project determined on was put in plain speech ? 

The answer was no, impossible, to each question. 

He glanced at Diana. She ? But it was past midnight 
when he left her. And she would never have betrayed 
him, never, never. To imagine it a moment was an 
injury to her. 

Where else could he look ? It had been specially men- 
tioned in the communication as a secret by his Chief, who 
trusted him and no others. Up to the consultation with 
the Cabinet, it was a thing to be guarded like life itselt 


320 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Not to a soul except Diana would Dacier have breathed 
syllable of any secret — and one of this weight ! 

He ran down the article again. There were the facts ; 
undeniable facts ; and they detonated with audible roaring 
and rounding echoes of them over England. How did they 
come there ? As well inquire how man came on the face of 
the earth. 

He had to wipe his forehead perpetually. Think as he 
would in exaltation of Diana to shelter himself, he was the 
accused. He might not be the guilty, but he had opened his 
mouth ; and though it was to her only, and she, as Dunstane 
had sworn, true as steel, he could not escape condemnation. 
He had virtually betrayed his master. Diana would never 
betray her lover, but the thing was in the air as soon as 
uttered : and off to the printing-press ! Dacier’s grotesque 
fancy under annoyance pictured a stream of small printer’s 
devils in flight from his babbling lips. 

He consumed bits of breakfast, with a sour confession that 
a newspaper-article had hit him at last, and stunningly. 

Hat and coat were called for. The state of aimlessness 
in hot perplexity demands a show of action. Whither to go 
first was as obscure as what to do. Diana said of the 
Englishman’s hat and coat, that she supposed they were to 
make him a walking presentment of the house he had shut 
up behind him. A shot of the eye at the glass confirmed 
the likeness, but with a ruefully wry -faced repudiation of 
it internally: — No*- so shut up! the reverse of that — a 
common babbler. 

However, there was no doubt of Diana. First he would 
call on her. The pleasantest dose in perturbations of the 
kind is instinctively taken first. She would console, 
perhaps direct him to guess how the secret had leaked. — 
But so suddenly, immediately ! It was inexplicable. 

Sudden and immediate consequences were experienced. 
On the steps of his house his way was blocked by the arri- 
val of Mr. Quintin Manx, who jumped out of a cab, 
bellowing interjections and interrogations in a breath. Was 
there anything in that article ? He had read it at break- 
fast, and it had choked him. Dacier was due at a house 
and could not wait : he said, rather sharply, he was not 
responsible for newspaper articles, Quintin Manx, a senior 


THE CRIMINAL’S JUDGE LOVE’S CRIMINAL 321 


gentleman and junior landowner, vowed that no Minister 
intending to sell the country should treat him as a sheep. 
The shepherd might go; he would not carry his flock with 
him. But was there a twinkle of probability in the story ? 
. . . that article ! Dacier was unable to inform him ; he was 
very hurried, had to keep an appointment. 

“ If I let you go, will you come and lunch with me at 
two ? ” said Quintin. 

To get rid of him, Dacier nodded and agreed. 

“ Two o’clock, mind ! *’ was bawled at his heels as he 
walked off with his long stride, unceremoniously leaving 
the pursy gentleman of sixty to settle with his cabman far 
to the rear. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

IN WHICH IT IS DARKLY SEEN HOW THE CRIMINAL’S JUDGE 
MAY BE LOVE’S CRIMINAL 

When we are losing balance on a precipice we do not 
think much of the thing we have clutched for support. 
Our balance is restored and we have not fallen ; that is the 
comfortable reflection : we stand as others do, and we will 
for the future be warned to avoid the dizzy stations which 
cry for resources beyond a common equilibrium, and where 
a slip precipitates us to ruin. 

When, further, it is a woman planted in a burning blush, 
having to idealize her feminine weakness, that she may not 
rebuke herself for grovelling, the mean material acts bv 
which she sustains a tottering position are speedily swal- 
lowed in the one pervading flame. She sees but an ashen 
curl of the path she has traversed to safety, if anything. 

Knowing her lover was to come in the morning, Diana’s 
thoughts dwelt wholly upon the way to tell him, as tenderly 
as possible without danger to herself, that her time for enter- 
tainingwas over until she had finished her book ; indefinitely, 
therefore. The apprehension of his complaining pricked 
the memory that she had something to forgive. He had 
sunk her in her own esteem by compelling her to see her 


322 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


woman’s softness. But how high above all other men her 
experience of him could place him notwithstanding ! He 
had bowed to the figure of herself, dearer than herself, that 
she set before him : and it was a true figure to the world ; 
a too fictitious to any but the most knightly of lovers. She 
forgave ; and a shudder seized her. — Snake ! she rebuked 
the delicious run of fire through her veins ; for she was not 
like the idol women of imperishable type, who are never 
for a twinkle the prey of the blood : statues created by 
man’s common desire to impress upon the sex his possess* 
ing pattern of them as domestic decorations. 

When she entered the room to Dacier and they touched 
hands, she rejoiced in her coolness, without any other feel- 
ing or perception active. Not to be unkind, not too kind : 
this was her task. She waited for the passage of common- 
places. 

“ You slept well, Percy ? ” 

li Yes ; and you ? ” 

“I don’t think I even dreamed.” 

They sat. She noticed the cloud on him and waited for 
his allusion to it, anxious concerning him simply. 

Dacier flung the hair off his temples. Words of Titanic 
formation were hurling in his head at journals and journal- 
ists. He muttered his disgust at them. 

“ Is there anything to annoy you in the papers to-day ? ” 
she asked, and thought how handsome his face was in anger. 

The paper of Mr. Tonans was named by him. “ You 
have not seen it ? ” 

“ I have not opened it yet.” 

He sprang up. “ The truth is, those fellows can now af- 
ford to buy right and left, corrupt every soul alive ! There 
must have been a spy at the keyhole. I ’m pretty certain 
— I could swear it was not breathed to any ear but mine; 
and there it is this morning in black and white.” 

“ What is?” cried Diana, turning to him on her chair. 

“ The thing I told you last night.” 

Her lips worked, as if to spell the thing. “ Printed, do 
you say ? ” she rose. 

“ Printed. In a leading article, loud as a trumpet ; a hue 
and cry running from end to end of the country. And my 
Chief has already had the satisfaction of seeing the secret 


THE CRIMINAL'S JUDGE LOVE’S CRIMINAL 323 

he confided to me yesterday roared in all the thoroughfares 
this morning. They’ve got the facts: his decision to pro- 
pose it, and the date — the whole of it ! But who could 
have betrayed it ? ” 

For the first time since her midnight expedition she felt 
a sensation of the full weight of the deed. She heard 
thunder. 

She tried to disperse the growing burden by an inward 
summons to contempt of the journalistic profession, but 
nothing would come. She tried to minimize it, and her 
brain succumbed. Her views of the deed last night and now 
throttled reason in two contending clutches. The enormity 
swelled its dimensions, taking shape, and pointing magneti- 
cally at her. She stood absolutely, amazedly, bare before 
it. 

“Is it of such very great importance ?” she said, like 
one supplicating him to lessen it. 

“ A secret of State ? If you ask whether it is of great 
importance to me, relatively it is of course. Nothing 
greater. Personally my conscience is clear. I never men- 
tioned it — couldn’t have mentioned it — to any one but 
you. I ’m not the man to blab secrets. He spoke to me 
because he knew he could trust me. To tell you the truth, 
I ’m brought to a dead stop. I can’t make a guess. I ’m 
certain, from what he said, that he trusted me only with it ; 
perfectly certain. I know him well. He was in his library, 
speaking in his usual conversational tone, deliberately, not 
overloud. He stated that it was a secret between us.” 

“ Will it affect him ? ” 

“ This article ? Why, naturally it will. You ask strange 
questions. A Minister coming to a determination like 
that! It affects him vitally. The members of the Cabinet 
are not so devoted. ... It affects us all — the whole 
Party ; may split it to pieces ! There ’s no reckoning the 
upset right and left. If it were false, it could be refuted ; 
we could despise it as a trick of journalism. It ’s true. 
There ’s the mischief. Tonans did not happen to call here 
last night ? — absurd ! I left later than twelve.” 

“No, but let me hear,” Diana said hurriedly, for the sake 
of uttering the veracious negative and to slur it over. 
“ Let me hear . . .” She could not muster an idea. 


324 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Her delicious thrilling voice was a comfort to him. He 
lifted his breast high and thumped it, trying to smile. 
“ After all, it ’s pleasant being with you, Tony. Give me 
your hand — you may : I ’m bothered — confounded by this 
morning surprise. It was like walking against the muzzle 
of a loaded cannon suddenly unmasked. One can’t fathom 
the mischief it will do. And I shall be suspected, and can’t 
quite protest myself the spotless innocent. Hot even to 
one’s heart’s mistress ! to the wife of 'the bosom !. I sup- 
pose I’m no Roman. You won’t give me your hand? 
Tony, you might, seeing I am rather . . .” 

A rush of scalding tears flooded her eyes. 

“ Don’t touch me,” she said, and forced her sight to look 
straight at him through the fiery shower. “ I have done 
positive mischief? ” 

“ You, my dear Tony?” He doated on her face. “ I 
don’t blame you, I blame myself. These things should 
never be breathed. Once in the air, the devil has hold of 
them. Don’t take it so much to heart. The thing’s bad 
enough to bear as it is. Tears! Let me have the hand. 
I came, on my honour, with the most honest intention to 
submit to your orders : but if I see you weeping in sym- 
pathy ! ” 

“ Oh ! for heaven’s sake,” she caught her hands away 
from him, “ don’t be generous. Whip me with scorpions. 
And don’t touch me,” cried Diana. “ Do you understand ? 
You did not name it as a secret. I did not imagine it to be 
a secret of immense, immediate importance.” 

“ But — what?” shouted Dacier stiffening. 

He wanted her positive meaning, as she perceived, having 
hoped that it was generally taken and current, and the 
shock to him over. 

“ I had ... I had not a suspicion of doing harm, Percy.” 

“ But what harm have you done ? Ho riddles! ” 

His features gave sign of the break in their common 
ground, the widening gulf. 

“ I went ... it was a curious giddiness : I can’t account 
for it. I thought . . .” 

“ Went? You went where ? ” 

“ Last night. I would speak intelligibly : my mind has 
gone. Ah ! you look. It is not so bad as my feeling.” 


THE CRIMINAL’S JUDGE LOVE’S CRIMINAL 325 

•' But where did you go last night ? What ! — to 
Tonans ? ” 

She drooped her head: she saw the track of her route 
cleaving the darkness in a demoniacal zig-zag and herself 
in demon’s grip. 

“ Yes,” she confronted him. “I went to Mr. Tonans.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ I went to him — ” 

“ You went alone ? ” 

“ I took my maid.” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ It was late when you left me ... 99 

“ Speak plainly ! ” 

“ I am trying : I will tell you all.” 

“ At once, if you please.” 

“ I went to him — why ? There is no accounting for it. 
He sneered constantly at any stale information.” 

“ You gave him constant information ? ” 

“ No : in our ordinary talk. He railed at me for being 
* out of it.’ I must be childish : I went to show him — oh ! 
my vanity ! I think I must have been possessed.” 

She watched the hardening of her lover’s eyes. They 
penetrated, and through them she read herself insufferably. 

But it was with hesitation still that he said : “ Then you 
betrayed me?” 

“ Percy ! I had not a suspicion of mischief.” 

“ You went straight to this man ? ” 

“ Not thinking ...” 

“ You sold me to a journalist ! ” 

“ I thought it was a secret of a day. I don’t think you — 
no, you did not tell me to keep it secret. A word from 
you would have been enough. I was in extremity.” 

Dacier threw his hands up and broke away. He had an 
impulse to dash from the room, to get a breath of different 
air. He stood at the window, observing tradesmen’s carts, 
housemaids, blank doors, dogs, a beggar fifer. Her last 
words recurred to him. He turned : “ You were in ex- 
tremity, you said. What is the meaning of that ? What 
extremity ? ” 

Her large dark eyes flashed powerlessly; her shape 
appeared to have narrowed j her tongue, too, was a feeble 
penitent. 


32G 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ You ask a creature to recall her acts of insanity.” 

“ There must be some signification in your words, I 
suppose.” 

“ I will tell you as clearly as I can. You have the right 
to be my judge. I was in extremity — that is, I saw no 
means ... I could not write : it was ruin .coming.” 

“ Ah ? — you took payment for playing spy ? ” 

“ I fancied I could retrieve ... Now I see the folly, the 
baseness. I was blind.” 

“ Then you sold me to a journalist for money ? ” 

The intolerable scourge fetched a stifled scream from her 
and drove her pacing, but there was no escape ; she returned 
to meet it. 

The room was a cage to both of them, and every word of 
either was a sting. 

“ Percy, I did not imagine he would use it — make use of 
it as he has done.” 

“ Not ? And when he paid for it ? ” 

“ I fancied it would be merely of general service — if 
any.” 

“ Distributed ; I see : not leading to the exposure of the 
communicant ! ” 

“ You are harsh ; but I would not have you milder,” 

The meekness of such a mischief-doer was revolting and 
called for the lash. 

“ Do me the favour to name the sum. I am curious to 
learn what my imbecility was counted worth.” 

“ No sum was named.” 

“ Have I been bought for a song ? ” 

“ It was a suggestion — no definite . . . nothing stipu- 
lated.” 

“ You were to receive money ! ” 

“ Leave me a bit of veiling ! No, you shall behold me 
the thing I am. Listen ... I was poor . . .” 

“ You might have applied to me.” 

“For money ! That I could not do.” 

“Better than betraying me, believe me.” 

“ I had no thought of betraying. I hope I could have 
died rather than consciously betray.” * . 

“ Money ! My whole fortune was at your disposal.” 

“ I was beset with debts, unable to write, and, last night 


THE CRIMINAL’S JUDGE LOVE’S CRIMINAL 827 


when you left me, abject. It seemed to me that you dis* 
respected me . . .” 

“ Last night ! ” Dacier cried with lashing emphasis. 

“ It is evident to me that I have the reptile in me, Percy. 
Or else I am subject to lose my reason. I went ... I 
went like a bullet: I cannot describe it; I was mad. I 
need a strong arm, I want help. I am given to think that 
I do my best and can be independent; I break down. I 
went blindly — now I see it — for the chance of recovering 
my position, as the gambler casts ; and he wins or loses. 
With me it is the soul that is lost. No exact sum was 
named ; thousands were hinted.” 

“ You are hardly practical on points of business.” 

“ I was insane.” 

“I think you said you slept well after it,” Dacier 
remarked. 

“ I had so little the idea of having done evilly, that I 
slept without a dream.” 

He shrugged : — the consciences of women are such 
smooth deeps, or running shallows, 

“ I have often wondered how your newspaper men got 
their information,” he said, and .muttered : “ Money — 

women ! ” adding : “ Idiots to prime them ! And I one of 
the leaky vessels ! Well, we learn. I have been rather 
astonished at times of late at the scraps of secret knowl- 
edge displayed by Tonans. If he flourishes his thousands ! 
The wonder is, he does n’t corrupt the Ministers’ wives. 
Perhaps he does. Marriage will become a danger-sign to 
Parliamentary members. Foreign women do these tricks 
. . . women of a well-known stamp. It is now a full year, I 
think, since I began to speak to you of secret matters — and 
congratulated myself, I recollect, on your thirst for them.” 

“Percy, if you suspect that I have uttered one word 
before last night, you are wrong. I cannot paint my temp- 
tation or my loss of sense last night. Previously I was 
blameless. I thirsted, yes ; but in the hope of helping 
you.” 

He looked at her. She perceived how glitteringly love- 
less his eyes had grown. It was her punishment; and 
though the enamoured woman’s heart protested it exces* 
sive, she accepted it. 


328 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ I can never trust you again,” he said. 

“ I fear you will not,” she replied. 

His coming back to her after the departure of the guests 
last night shone on him in splendid colours of single- 
minded loverlike devotion. “I came to speak to my own 
heart. I thought it would give you pleasure; thought I 
could trust you utterly. I had not the slightest conception 
I was imperilling my honour ! . . .” 

He stopped. Her bloodless fixed features revealed an 
intensity of anguish that checked him. Only her mouth, 
a little open for the sharp breath, appeared dumbly be- 
seeching. Her large eyes met his like steel to steel, as of 
one who would die fronting the weapon. 

He strangled a loathsome inclination to admire. 

“ So good bye,” he said. 

She moved her lips. 

He said no more. In half a minute he was gone. 

To her it was the plucking of life out of her breast. 

She pressed her hands where heart had been. The 
pallor and cold of death took her body. 


CHAPTER XXXV 

REVEALS HOW THE TRUE HEROINE OF ROMANCE COMES 
FINALLY TO HER TIME OF TRIUMPH 

The shutting of her house-door closed for Dacier that 
woman’s history in connection with himself. He set his 
mind on the consequences of the act of folly — the trusting 
a secret to a woman. All were possibly not so bad : none 
should be trusted. 

The air of the street fanned him agreeably as he revolved 
the horrible project of confession to the man who had put 
faith in him. Particulars might be asked. She would be 
unnamed, but an imagination of the effect of naming her 
placarded a notorious woman in fresh paint : two members 
of the same family her victims ! 

And last night, no later than last night, he had swung 
round at this very corner of the street to give her the full* 


THE TRUE HEROINE’S TIME OF TRIUMPH. 329 

est proof of his affection. He beheld a dupe trotting into 
a carefully-laid pitfall. She had him by the generosity of 
his confidence in her. Moreover, the recollection of her 
recent feeble phrasing, when she stood convicted of the 
treachery, when a really clever woman would have de- 
veloped her resources, led him to doubt her being so finely 
gifted. She was just clever enough to hoodwink. He 
attributed the dupery to a trick of imposing the idea of 
her virtue upon men. Attracted by her good looks and 
sparkle, they entered the circle of her charm, became de- 
lightfully intimate, suffered a rebuff, and were from that 
time prepared to serve her purpose. How many other 
wretched dupes had she dangling ? He spied at Westlake, 
spied at Red worth, at old Lord Larrian, at Lord Dannis- 
burgh, at Arthur Rhodes, dozens. Old and young were 
alike to her if she saw an end to be gained by keeping them 
hooked. Tonans too, and Whitmonby. Newspaper editors 
were especially serviceable. Perhaps “ a young Minister of 
State ” held the foremost rank in that respect: if com- 
pletely duped and squeezeable, he produced more sub- 
stantial stuff. 

The background of ice in Dacier’s composition was 
brought to the front by his righteous contempt of her 
treachery. No explanation of it would have appeased him. 
She was guilty, and he condemned her. She stood con- 
demned by all the evil likely to ensue from her misdeed. 
Scarcely had he left her house last night when she was 
away to betray him ! — He shook her from him without a 
pang. Crediting her with the one merit she had — that of 
not imploring for mercy — he the more easily shook her 
off. Treacherous, she had not proved theatrical. So there 
was no fuss in putting out her light, and it was done. He 
was justified by the brute facts. Honourable, courteous, 
kindly gentleman, highly civilized, an excellent citizen and 
a patriot, he was icy at an outrage to his principles, and in 
the dominion of Love a sultan of the bow-string and chop- 
per period, sovereignly endowed to stretch a finger for the 
scimitared Mesrour to make the erring woman head and 
trunk with one blow: and away with those remnants! 
This internally he did. Enough that the brute facts jus- 
tified him. 


830 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

St. James’s park was crossed, and the grass of the Green 
park, to avoid inquisitive friends. He was obliged to walk ; 
exercise, action of any sort, was imperative, and but for 
some engagement he would have gone to his fencing-rooms 
for a bout with the master. He remembered his engage- 
ment and grew doubly embittered. He. had absurdly 
pledged himself to lunch with Quintin Manx; that was, 
to pretend to eat while submitting to be questioned by a 
political dullard strong on his present right to overhaul and 
rail at his superiors. The house was one of a block along 
the North-Western line of Hyde park. He kicked at the 
subjection to go there, but a promise was binding, though 
he gave it when stunned. He could have silenced Mr. 
Manx with the posing interrogation : Why have I so long 
consented to put myself at the mercy of a bore ? For him, 
he could not answer it, though Manx, as leader of the Ship* 
ping interest, was influential. The man had to be endured, 
like other doses in politics. 

Dacier did not once think of the great ship-owner’s 
niece till Miss Constance Asper stepped into her drawing- 
room to welcome him. She was an image of repose to his 
mind. The calm pure outline of her white features re- 
freshed him as the Alps the Londoner newly alighted at 
Berne ; smoke, wrangle, the wrestling city’s wickedness, 
behind him. 

u My uncle is very disturbed,” she said. “ Is the news — 
if I am not very indiscreet in inquiring ? ” 

“ I have a practice of never paying attention to news- 
paper articles,” Dacier replied. 

“I am only affected by living with one who does,” Miss 
Asper observed, and the lofty isolation of her head above 
politics gave her a moral attractiveness in addition to physi- 
cal beauty. Her water-colour sketches were on her uncle’s 
walls: the beautiful in nature claimed and absorbed her. 
She dressed with a pretty rigour, a lovely simplicity, 
picturesque of the nunnery. She looked indeed a high-born 
young lady-abbess. 

“ It ’s a dusty game for ladies,” Dacier said, abhorring the 
women defiled by it. 

And when one thinks of the desire of men to worship 
women, there is a pathos in a man’s discovery of the fair 


THE TRUE HEROINE’S TIME OF TRIUMPH 331 

young creature undefiled by any interest in public affairs, 
virginal amid her bower’s environments. 

The angelical beauty of a virgin mind and person capti- 
vated him, by contrast. His natural taste was to admire it, 
shunning the lures and tangles of the women on high seas, 
notably the married : who, by the way, contrive to ensnare 
us through wonderment at a cleverness caught from their 
traffic with the masculine world : often — if we did but 
know! — a parrot repetition of the last- male visitor’s 
remarks. But that which the fair maiden speaks, though 
it may be simple, is her own. 

She too is her own : or vowed but to one. She is on all 
sides impressive in purity. The world worships her as its 
perfect pearl : and we are brought refreshfully to acknowl- 
edge that the world is right. 

By contrast, the white radiation of Innocence distin- 
guished Constance Asper celestially. As he was well aware, 
she had long preferred him — the reserved among many 
pleading pressing suitors# Her steady faithfulness had fed 
on the poorest crumbs. 

He ventured to express the hope that she was well. 

“Yes,” she answered, with eyelids lifted softly to thank 
him for his concern in so humble a person. 

“ You look a little pale,” he said. 

She coloured like a # sea-water shell. “I am inclined to 
paleness by nature.” 

Her uncle disturbed them. Lunch was ready. He apolo- 
gized for the absence of Mrs. Markland, a maternal aunt of 
Constance, who kept house for them. Quintin Manx fell 
upon the meats, and then upon the Minister. Dacier found 
himself happily surprised by the accession of an appetite. 
He mentioned it, to escape from the worrying of his host, 
as unusual with him at midday : and Miss Asper, support- 
ing him in that effort, said benevolently : “Gentlemen should 
eat ; they have so many fatigues and troubles.” She her- 
self did not like to be seen eating in public. Her lips 
opened to the morsels, as with a bird’s bill, though with 
none of the pecking eagerness we complacently observe in 
poultry. 

“ But now, I say, positively, how about that article * ** 
said Quintin. 


332 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Dacier visibly winced, and Constance immediately said . 
“ Oh ! spare us politics, dear uncle.” 

Her intercession was without avail, but by contrast with 
the woman implicated in the horrible article, it was a carol 
of the seraphs. 

“ Come, you can say whether there ’s anything in it,” 
Dacier’s host pushed him. 

“I should not say it if I could,” he replied. 

The mild sweetness of Miss Asper’s look encouraged 
him. 

He was touched to the quick by hearing her say: “You 
ask for Cabinet secrets, uncle. All secrets are holy, but 
secrets of State are under a seal next to divine.” 

Next to divine! She was the mouthpiece of his ruling 
principle. 

“I ’m not prying into. secrets,” Quintin persisted ; “all I 
want to know is, whether there ’s any foundation for that 
article — all London ’s boiling about it, I can tell you — or 
it ’s only newspaper’s humbug.” 

“ Clearly the oracle for you is the Editor ’s office,” 
rejoined Dacier. 

“ A pretty sort of answer I should get.” 

“ It would at least be complimentary.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ The net was cast for you — and tfie sight of a fish in it ! ” 

Miss Asper almost laughed. “ Have you heard the choir 
at St. Catherine ’s ? ” she asked. 

Dacier had not. He repented of his worldliness, and 
drinking persuasive claret, said he would go to hear it next 
Sunday. 

“Do,” she murmured. 

“ Well, you seem to be a pair against me,” her uncle 
grumbled. “ Anyhow I think it ’s important. People have 
been talking for some time, and I don’t want to be taken 
unawares ; I won’t be a yoked ox, mind you.” 

“ Have you been sketching lately ? ” Dacier asked Miss 
Asper. 

She generally filled a book in the autumn, she said. 

“May I see it ? ” 

“If you wish.” 

They had a short tussle with her uncle and escaped. He 


THE TRUE HEROINE’S TIME OF TRIUMPH 333 

was conducted to a room midway upstairs : an heiress\s 
conception of a saintly little room; and more impressive in 
purity, indeed it was, than a saint’s, with the many cruci- 
fixes, gold and silver emblems, velvet prie-Dieu chairs, 
jewel-clasped sacred volumes : every invitation to meditate 
in luxury on an ascetic religiousness. 

She depreciated her sketching powers. “ I am impatient 
with my imperfections. I am therefore doomed not to 
advance.” 

“ On the contrary, that is the state guaranteeing ultimate 
excellence,” he said, much disposed to drone about it. 

She sighed : “ I fear not.” 

He turned the leaves, comparing her modesty with the 
performance. The third of the leaves was a subject in- 
stantly recognized by him. It represented the place he had 
inherited from Lord Dannisburgh. 

He named it. 

She smiled : " You are good enough to see a likeness ? 
My aunt and I were passing it last October, and I waited 
for a day, to sketch.” 

“ You have taken it from my favourite point of view.” 

“ I am glad.” 

“ How much I should like a copy 1 ” 

“ If you will accept that ? ” 

“ I could not rob you.” 

“ I can make a duplicate.” 

“ The look of the place pleases you ? ” 

“ Oh ! yes ; the pines behind it ; the sweet little village 
church ; even the appearance of the rustics ; — it is all im- 
pressively old English. I suppose you are very seldom 
there ? ” 

“ Does it look like a home to you ? ” 

“No place more!” 

“ I feel the loneliness.” 

“ Where I live I feel no loneliness ! ” 

“ You have heavenly messengers near you.” 

“ They do not always come.” 

“ Would you consent to make the place less lonely tome?” 

Her bosom rose. In deference to her maidenly under 
standing, she gazed inquiringly. 

“ If, you love it ! ” said he* 


384 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

“ The place ? ” she said, looking soft at the possessor. 

“ Constance ! ” 

“ Is it true ? ” 

“As you yourself. Could it be other than true ? This 
hand is mine ? ” 

“Oh! Percy.” 

Borrowing the world’s poetry to describe them, the long 
prayed-for Summer enveloped the melting snows. 

So the recollection of Diana’s watch beside his uncle’s 
death-bed was wiped out. Ay, and the hissing of her 
treachery silenced. This maidenly hand put him at peace 
with the world, instead of his defying it for a worthless 
woman — who could not do better than accept the shelter of 
her husband ’s house, as she ought to be told, if her friends 
wished her to save her reputation. 

Dacier made his way downstairs to Quintin Manx, by 
whom he was hotly congratulated and informed of the 
extent of the young lady ’s fortune : on the strength of 
which it was expected that he would certainly speak a pri- 
vate word in elucidation of that newspaper article. 

“I know nothing of it,” said Dacier, but promised to 
come and dine. 

Alone in her happiness Constance Asper despatched 
various brief notes under her gold-symbolled crest to 
sisterly friends; one to Lady Wathin, containing the single 
line : — 

“ Your prophesy is confirmed.” 

Dacier was comfortably able to face his Club after the 
excitement of a proposal, with a bride on his hands. He 
was assaulted concerning the article, and he parried capi- 
tally. Say that her lips were rather cold : at any rate, 
they invigorated him. Her character was guaranteed — 
not the hazy idea of a dupe. And her fortune would be 
enormous; a speculation merely due to worldly prudence 
and- prospective ambition. 

At the dinner-table of four, in the evening, conversation 
would have seemed dull to him, by contrast, had it not been 
for the presiding grace of his bride, whose habitually emi- 
nent feminine air of superiority to the repast was throned by 
her appreciative receptiveness of his looks and utterances. 
Before leaving her, he won her consent to a very early mar- 


THE TRUE HEROINE’S TIME OF TRIUMPH 335 


riage ; on the plea of a possibly approaching Session, and also 
that they had waited long. The consent, notwithstanding 
the hurry of preparations it involved, besides the annihila- 
tion of her desire to meditate on so solemn a change in her 
life and savour the congratulation of her friends and have 
the choir of St. Catherine’s rigorously drilled in her favour- 
ite anthems, was beautifully yielded to the pressure of 
circumstances. 

There lay on his table at night a letter; a bulky letter. 
No need to tear it open for sight of the signature : the 
superscription was redolent of that betraying woman. He 
tossed it unopened into the fire. 

As it was thick, it burned sullenly, discolouring his name 
on the address, as she had done, and still offering him a last 
chance of viewing the contents. She fought on the consum- 
ing fire to have her exculpation heard. 

But was she not a shameless traitor? She had caught 
him by his love of- his country and hope to serve it. She 
had wound into his heart to bleed him of all he knew and 
sell the secrets for money. A wonderful sort of eloquence 
lay there, on those coals, no doubt. He felt a slight move- 
ment of curiosity to glance at two or three random sentences : 
very slight. And why read them now ? They were value- 
less to him, mere outcries. He judged her by the brute 
facts. She and her slowly-consuming letter were of a com- 
mon blackness. Moreover, to read them when he was 
plighted to another woman would be senseless. In the dis- 
covery of her baseness, she had made a poor figure. Doubt- 
less during the afternoon she had trimmed her intuitive 
Belial art of making “ the worse appear the better cause : ” 
^ueer to peruse, and instructive in an unprofitable depart- 
ment of knowledge — the tricks of the sex. 

He said to himself, with little intuition of the popular 
taste: She wouldn’t be a bad heroine of Romance ! He 
said it derisively of the Romantic. But the right worship- 
ful heroine of Romance was the front-face female picture he 
had won for his walls. Poor Diana was the flecked heroine 
of Reality : not always the same ; not impeccable ; not an 
ignorant-innocent, nor a guileless : good under good leading ; 
devoted to the death in a grave crisis ; often wrestling with 
her terrestrial nature nobly ; and a growing soul ; but not 


336 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


one whose purity was carved in marble for the assurance to 
an Englishman that his possession of the changeless thing 
defies time and his fellows, is the pillar of his home and 
universally enviable. Your fair one of Romance cannot 
suffer a mishap without a plotting villain, perchance many 
of them, to wreak the dread iniquity : she cannot move 
without him ; she is the marble block, and if she is to have 
a feature, he is the sculptor ; she depends on him for life, 
and her human history at least is married to him far more 
than to the rescuing lover. No wonder, then, that men 
should find her thrice cherishable featureless, or with the 
most moderate possible indication of a countenance. Thou- 
sands of the excellent simple creatures do ; and every reader 
of her tale. On the contrary, the heroine of Reality is that 
woman whom you have met or heard of once in your course 
of years, and very probably despised for bearing in her com- 
position the motive principle ; at best, you say, a singular 
mixture of good and bad ; anything but the feminine ideal 
of man. Feature to some excess, you think, distinguishes 
her. Yet she furnishes not any of the sweet sensual excite- 
ment pertaining to her spotless rival pursued by villainy. 
She knocks at the doors of the mind, and the mind must 
open to be interested in her. Mind and heart must be wide 
open to excuse her sheer descent from the pure ideal of 
man. 

Dacier’s wandering reflections all came back in crowds to 
the judicial Bench of the Black Cap. He felt finely, apart 
from the treason, that her want of money degraded her : 
him too, by contact. Money she might have had to any 
extent', upon application for it, of course. How was he to 
imagine that she wanted money ! Smilingly as she welcomed 
him and his friends, entertaining them royally, he was 
bound to think she had means. A decent propriety bound 
him not to think of the matter at all. He naturally sup- 
posed she was capable of conducting her affairs. And — . 
money ! It soiled his memory : though the hour at Rovio 
was rather pretty, and the scene at Copsley touching: other 
times also, short glimpses of the woman were taking. The 
flood of her treachery effaced them. And why reflect? 
Constance called to him to look her way. 

liana’s letter died hard. The corners were burnt to 


HEARTLESSNESS OF WOMEN WITH BRAINS 83'. 

black tissue, with an edge or two of discoloured paper. A. 
small frayed central heap still resisted, and in kindness Ur 
the necessity for privacy, he impressed the fire-tongs to 
complete the execution. After which he went to his desk 
and worked, under the presidency of Constance. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

IS CONCLUSIVE AS TO THE HEARTLESSNESS OF WOMEN 
WITH BRAINS 

Hymenjeal rumours are those which might be backed 
to run a victorious race with the tale of evil fortune ; and 
clearly for the reason that man’s livelier half is ever alert 
to speed them. They travel with an astonishing celerity 
over the land, like flames of the dry beacon-faggots of old 
time in announcement of the invader or a conquest, gather- 
ing as they go : wherein, to say nothing of their vastly 
wider range, they surpass the electric wires. Man’s nuptial 
half is kindlingly concerned in the launch of a new couple ; 
it is the business of the fair sex : and man himself (very 
strangely, but nature quickens him still) lends a not un- 
favouring eye to the preparations of the matrimonial vessel 
for its oily descent into the tides, where billows will soon 
be rising, captain and mate soon discussing the fateful 
question of who is commander. We consent, it appears, to 
hope again for mankind ; here is another chance ! Or else, 
assuming the happiness of the pair, that pomp of ceremo- 
nial, contrasted with the little wind-blown candle they carry 
between them, catches at our weaker fibres. After so many 
ships have foundered, some keel up, like poisoned fish, at 
the first drink of water, it is a gallant spectacle, let us 
avow ; and either the world perpetuating it is heroical or 
nature incorrigible in the species. Marriages are unceasing. 
Friends do it, and enemies ; the unknown contractors of 
this engagement, or armistice, inspire an interest. It 
certainly is both exciting and comforting to hear that man 
and woman are ready to join in a mutual affirmative, saji 
Ves together again. It sounds like the end of the war. 


338 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


The proclamation of the proximate marriage of a young 
Minister of State and the greatest heiress of her day ; — 
notoriously “ The young Minister of State ” of a famous 
book written by the beautiful, now writhing, woman madly 
enamoured of him — and the heiress whose dowry could 
purchase a Duchy ; this was a note to make the gossips of 
England leap from their beds at the midnight hour and 
wag tongues in the market-place. It did away with the 
political hubbub over the Tonans article, and let it noise 
abroad like nonsense. The Hon. Percy Dacier espouses 
Miss Asper ; and she rescues him from the snares of a siren, 
he her from the toils of the Papists. She would have gone 
over to them, she was going when, luckily for the Protest- 
ant Faith, Percy Dacier intervened with his proposal. 
Town and country buzzed the news ; and while that dreary 
League trumpeted about the business of the nation, a people 
suddenly become Oriental chattered of nothing but the 
blissful union to be celebrated in princely state, with every 
musical accessory, short of Operatic. 

Lady Wathin was an active agent in this excitement. 
The excellent woman enjoyed marriages of High Life : 
which, as there is presumably wealth to support them, are 
manifestly under sanction: and a marriage that she could 
consider one of her own contrivance, had a delicate flavour 
of a marriage in the family ; not quite equal to the seeing 
a dear daughter of her numerous progeny conducted to 
the altar, but excelling it in the pomp that bids the heavens 
open. She and no other spread the tidings of Miss Asper’s 
debating upon the step to Rome at the very instant of 
Percy Dacier’s declaration of his love ; — and it was a 
beautiful struggle, that of the half -dedicated nun and her 
deep-rooted earthly passion, love prevailing! She sent 
word of to Lady Dunstane: “You know the interest I 
have always taken in dear Constance Asper,” &c. ; inviting 
her to come on a visit a week before the end of the month, 
that she might join in the ceremony of a wedding “ likely 
to be the grandest of our time.” Pitiful though it was, to 
think of the bridal pair having but eight or ten days at 
the outside, for a honeymoon, the beauty of their “ mutual 
devotion to duty” was urged by Lady Wathin upon all 
hearers. 


HEARTLESSNESS OF WOMEN WITH BRAINS 339 

Lady Dunstane declined tfte invitation. She waited to 
hear from her friend, and the days went by ; she could only 
sorrow for her poor Tony, divining her state. However 
little of wrong in the circumstances, they imposed a silence 
on her decent mind, and no conceivable shape of writing 
would transmit condolences. She waited, with a dull heart- 
ache : by no means grieving at Dacier’s engagement to the 
heiress; until Redworth animated her, as the bearer of 
rather startling intelligence, indirectly relating to the soul 
she loved. An accident in the street had befallen Mr. War- 
wick. Redworth wanted to know whether Diana should be 
told of it, though he had no particulars to give ; and some- 
what to his disappointment, Lady Dunstane said she would 
write. She delayed, thinking the accident might not be 
serious ; and the information of it to Diana surely would 
be so. Next day at noon her visitor was Lady Wathin, 
evidently perturbed and anxious to say more than she 
dared : but she received no- assistance. After beating the 
air in every direction, especially dwelling on the fond 
reciprocal affection of the two devoted lovers, to be united 
within three days’ time, Lady Wathin said at last: “And 
is it not shocking ! I talk of a marriage and am appalled by 
a death. That poor man died last night in the hospital. 
I mean poor Mr. Warwick. He was ‘ recovering, getting 
strong and well, and he was knocked down at a street- 
crossing and died last night. It is a warning to us ! ” 

“ Mr. Redworth happened to hear of it at his Club, near 
which the accident occurred, and he called at the hospital. 
Mr. Warwick was then alive,” said Lady Dunstane ; add- 
ing: “Well, if prevention is better than cure, as we hear! 
Accidents are the specific for averting the maladies of age, 
which are a certain crop 

Lady Wathin’s eyelids worked and her lips shut fast at 
the coldhearted remark void of meaning. 

She sighed. “ So ends a life of misery, my dear! ” 

“ You are compassionate.” 

“ I hope so. But . . . Indeed I must speak, if you will 
let me. I think of the living.” 

Lady Dunstane widened her eyes. “ Of Mrs. Warwick ? ” 

“She has now the freedom she desired. I think of 
others. Forgive me. but Constance 4-sper is to me as a 


840 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


daughter. I have perhaps do grounds for any apprehen- 
sion. Love so ardent, so sincere, was never shown by 
bridegroom elect : and it is not extraordinary to those 
acquainted with dear Constance. But one may be a wor- 
shipped saint and experience defection. The terrible sto- 
ries one hears of a power of fascination almost . . . ! ” Lady 
Wathin hung for the word. 

“ Infernal,” said Lady Dunstane, whose brows had been 
bent inquiringly. “ Have no fear. The freedom you allude 
to will not be used to interfere with any entertainment in 
prospect. It was freedom my friend desired. Now that 
her jewel is restored to her, she is not the person to throw 
it away, be sure. And pray, drop the subject.” 

“ One may rely . . . you think ? ” 

“Oh! Oh!” 

“ This release coming just before the wedding ! . . .” 

“ I should hardly suppose the man to be the puppet you 
depict, or indicate.” 

“ It is because men — so many — are not puppets that 
one is conscious of alarm.” 

“Your previous remark,” said Lady Dunstane, “sounded 
superstitious. Your present one has an antipodal basis. 
But, as for your alarm, check it : and spare me further. 
My friend has acknowledged powers. Considering that 
she does not use them, you should learn to respect her.” 

Lady Wathin bowed stiffly. She refused to partake of 
lunch, having, she said, satisfied her conscience by the per- 
formance of a duty and arranged with her flyman to catch 
a train. Her cousin Lady Dunstane smiled loftily at every- 
thing she uttered, and she felt that if a woman like this 
Mrs. Warwick could put division between blood-relatives, 
she could do worse, and was to be dreaded up to the hour 
of the nuptials. 

“ I meant no harm in coming,” she said, at the shaking 
of hands. 

“ No, no ; I understand,” said her hostess : “ you are hen- 
hearted over your adopted brood. The situation is percep- 
tible and your intention creditable.” 

As one of the good women of the world, Lady Wathin in 
departing was indignant nt the tone and dialect of a younger 
woman not modestlv concealing her possession of the larger 


HEARTLESSNESS OF tfTOMEN WITH BRAINS 341 

brain. Brains in women she both dreaded and detested; 
she believed them to be devilish. Here were instances : — 
they had driven poor Sir Lukin to evil courses, and that 
poor Mr. Warwick straight under the wheels of a cab. Sir 
Lukin’s name was trotting in public with a naughty Mrs. 
Fryar-Gunnett’s : Mrs. Warwick might still trim her arts 
to baffle the marriage. Women with brains, moreover, are 
all heartless : they have no pity for distress, no horror of 
catastrophes, no joy in the happiness of the deserving. 
Brains in men advance a household to station ; but brains 
in women divide it and are the wrecking of society. For- 
tunately Lady Wathin knew she could rally a powerful 
moral contingent, the aptitude of which for a one-minded 
cohesion enabled it to crush those fractional' daughters of 
mischief. She was a really good woman of the world, head* 
ing a multitude; the same whom you are accustomed to 
hear exalted; lucky in having had a guided girlhood, a 
thick-curtained prudence ; and in having stock in the moral 
funds, shares in the sentimental tramways. Wherever the 
world laid its hoards or ran its lines, she was found, and 
forcible enough to be eminent ; though at fixed hours of 
the day, even as she washed her hands, she abjured world- 
liness: a performance that cleansed her. If she did not 
make morality appear loveable to the objects of her dislike, 
it was owing to her want of brains to see the origin, nature 
and right ends of morality. But a world yet more deficient 
than she, esteemed her cordially for being a bulwark of the 
present edifice; which looks a solid structure when the 
microscope is not applied to its components. 

Supposing Percy Dacier a dishonourable tattler as well 
as an icy lover, and that Lady Wathin, through his bride, 
had become privy to the secret between him and Diana ? 
There is reason to think that she would have held it in 
terror over the baneful woman, but not have persecuted 
her : for she was by no means the active malignant of theat- 
rical plots. No, she would have charged it upon the posses- 
sion of brains by women, and have had a further motive 
for inciting the potent dignitary her husband to employ his 
authority to repress the sex’s exercise of those fell weapons, 
hurtful alike to them and all coming near them. 

So extreme was her dread of Mrs. Warwick, that she 


342 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


drove from the London railway station to see Constance 
and be reassured by her tranquil aspect. 

Sweet Constance and her betrothed Percy were together, 
examining a missal. 

Lady Dunstane despatched a few words of the facts to 
Diana. She hoped to hear from her; rather hoped, for the 
moment, not to see her. No answer came. The great day 
of the nuptials came and passed. She counted on her hus- 
band’s appearance the next morning, as the good gentle- 
man made a point of visiting her, to entertain the wife 
he adored, whenever he had a wallet of gossip that would 
overlay the blank of his absence. He had been to the 
church of the wedding — he did not say with whom : — all 
the world was there; and he rapturously described the 
ceremony, stating that it set women weeping and caused 
him to behave like a fool. 

“You are impressionable,” said his wife. 

He murmured something in praise of the institution of 
marriage — when celebrated impressively, it seemed. 

“Tony calls the social world ‘ the theatre of appetites,’ 
as we have it at present,” she said; “and the world at a 
wedding is, one may reckon, in the second act of the hun- 
gry tragi-comedy.” 

“Yes, there ’s the breakfast,” Sir Lukin assented. Mrs. 
Fryar-Gunnett was much more intelligible to him : in fact, 
quite so, as to her speech. 

Emma’s heart now yearned to her Tony. Consulting 
her strength, she thought she might journey to London, 
and on the third morning after the Dacier-Asper marriage, 
she started. 

Diana’s door was open to Arthur Rhodes when Emma 
reached it. 

“ Have you seen her?” she asked him. 

His head shook dolefully. “Mrs. Warwick is unwell; 
she has been working too hard.” 

“You also, I ’m afraid.” 

“ No.” He could deny that, whatever the look of him. 

“ Come to me at Copsley soon,” said she, entering to 
Danvers in the passage. 

“ My mistress is upstairs, my lady,” said Danvers. “ She 
is lying on her bed.” 


HEARTLESSNESS OF WOMEN WITH BRAINS 343 

“She is ill?” 

“She has been lying on her bed ever since.” 

“ Since what ? ” Lady Dunstane spoke sharply. 

Danvers retrieved her indiscretion. “ Since she heard of 
the accident, my lady.” 

“Take my name to her. Or no: I can venture.” 

“ I am not allowed to go in and speak to her. You will 
find the room quite dark, my lady, and very cold. It is 
her command. My mistress will not let me light the fire; 
and she has not eaten or drunk of anything since. . . . 
She will die, if you do not persuade her to take nourish- 
ment: a little, for a beginning. It wants the beginning.” 

Emma went upstairs, thinking of the enigmatical maid, 
that she must be a good soul after all. Diana’s bedroom 
door was opened slowly. 

“You will not be able to see at first, my lady,” Danvers 
whispered. “ The bed is to the left, and a chair. I would 
bring in a candle, but it hurts her eyes. She forbids it.” 

Emma stepped in. The chill thick air of the unlighted 
London room was cavernous. She almost forgot the beloved 
of her heart in the thought that a living woman had been 
lying here more than two days and nights, fasting. The 
proof of an uttermost misery revived the circumstances 
within her to render her friend’s presence in this desert of 
darkness credible. She found the bed by touch, silentty, 
and distinguished a dark heap on the bed; she heard no 
breathing. She sat and listened; then she stretched her 
hand and met her Tony’s. It lay open. It was the hand 
of a drowned woman. 

Shutters and curtains and the fireless grate gave the 
room an appalling likeness to the vaults. 

So like to the home of death it seemed, that in a few 
minutes the watcher had lost count of time and kept but 
a wormy memory of the daylight. She dared not speak, 
for some fear of startling; for the worse fear of never 
getting answer. Tony’s hand was lifeless. Her clasp of 
it struck no warmth. 

She stung herself with bitter reproaches for having let 
common mundane sentiments, worthy of a Lady Wathin, 
bar her instant offer of her bosom to the beloved who 
Buffered in this depth of mortal agony. Tony’s love of 


844 


DIANA OP THE CROSSWAYS 


a man, as she should have known, would be wrought of 
the elements of our being: when other women named Hap- 
piness, she said Life; in division, Death. Her body lying 
still upon the bed here was a soul borne onward by the 
river of Death. 

The darkness gave sight after a while, like a curtain 
lifting on a veil: the dead light of the underworld. Tony 
lay with her face up, her underlip dropped; straight from 
head to feet. The outline of her face, without hue of it, 
could be seen : sign of the hapless women that have souls 
in love. Hateful love of men! Emma thought, and was 
moved to feel at the wrist for her darling’s pulse. He has 
killed her! the thought flashed, as, with pangs chilling 
her frame, the pressure at the wrist continued insensible 
of the faintest beat. She clasped it, trembling, in pain to 
stop an outcry. 

“ It is Emmy,” said the voice. 

Emma’s heart sprang to heaven on a rush of thanks. 

“My Tony,” she breathed softly. 

She hung for a further proof of life in the motionless 
body. “ Tony ! ” she said. 

The answer was at her hand, a thread-like return of her 
clasp. 

“It is Emmy come to stay with you, never to leave 
you.” 

The thin still answer was at her hand a moment; the 
fingers fell away. A deep breath was taken twice to say : 
“ Don’t talk to me.” 

Emma retained the hand. She was warned not to press 
it by the deadness following its effort to reply. 

But Tony lived; she had given proof of life. Over this 
little wavering taper in the vaults Emma cowered, cherish- 
ing the hand, silently hoping for the voice. 

It came: “Winter.” 

“ It is a cold winter, Tony.” 

“My dear will be cold.” 

“I will light the fire.” 

Emma lost no time in deciding to seek the match-box. 
The fire was lit and it flamed; it seemed a revival in the 
room. Coming back to the bedside, she discerned her 
Tony’s lack-lustre large dark eyes and her hollow cheeks: 


HEARTLESSNESS OF WOMEN WITH BRAINS 345 

her mouth open to air as to the drawing-in of a sword; 
rather as to the releaser than the sustainer. Her feet were 
on the rug her maid had placed to cover them. Emma 
leaned across the bed to put them to her breast, beneath 
her fur mantle, and held them there despite the half- 
animate tug of the limbs and the shaft of iciness they sent 
to her very heart. When she had restored them to some 
warmth , she threw aside her bonnet and lying beside Tony, 
took her in her arms, heaving now and then a deep sigh. 

She kissed her cheek. 

“It is Emmy.” 

“Kiss her,” 

“I have no strength.” 

Emma laid her face on the lips. They were cold; even 
the breath between them cold. 

“ Has Emmy been long . . . ? ” 

“Here, dear? I think so. I am with my darling.” 

Tony moaned. The warmth and the love were bringing 
back her anguish. 

She said: “I have been happy. It is not hard to go.” 

Emma strained to her. “Tony will wait for her soul’s 
own soul to go, the two together.” 

There was a faint convulsion in the body. “ If I cry, I 
shall go in pain.” 

“You are in Emmy’s arms, my beloved.” 

Tony’s eyes closed for forgetfulness under that sensa* 
tion. A tear ran down from her, but the pain was lax and 
neighboured sleep, like the pleasure. 

So passed the short winter day, little spoken. 

Then Emma bethought her of a way of leading Tony to 
take food, and she said: “I shall stay with you; I shall 
send for clothes; I am rather hungry. Don’t stir, dear. 
I will be mistress of the house.” 

She went below to the kitchen, where a few words in 
the ear of a Frenchwoman were sufficient to waken imme- 
diate comprehension of what was wanted, and smart ser- 
vice: within ten minutes an appetizing bouillon sent its 
odour over the bedroom. Tony, days back, had said her 
last to the act of eating; but Emma sipping at the spoon 
and expressing satisfaction, was a pleasant picture. The 
bouillon smelt pleasantly. 


346 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“Your servants love you,” Emma said. 

“Ah, poor good souls.” 

“ They crowded up to me to hear of you. Madame of 
course at the first word was off to her pots. And we 
English have the habit of calling ourselves the practical 
people ! — This bouillon is consummate. — However, we 
have the virtues of barbarians; we can love and serve for 
love. I never tasted anything so good. I 'could become 
a glutton.” 

“Do,” said Tony. 

“I should be ashamed to ‘ drain the bowl ’ all to myself: 
a solitary toper is a horrid creature, unless he makes a 
song of it.” 

“Emmy makes a song of it to me.” 

“But ‘ pledge me ’ is a noble saying, when you think of 
humanity’s original hunger for the whole. It is there that 
our civilizing commenced, and I am particularly fond of 
hearing the call. It is grandly historic. So pledge me, 
Tony. We two can feed from one spoon; it is a closer 
bond than the loving cup. I want you just to taste it and 
excuse my gluttony.” 

Tony murmured, “No.” The spoon was put to her 
mouth. She sighed to resist. The stronger will com- 
pelled her to move her lips. Emma fed her as a child, 
and nature sucked for life. 

The first effect was a gush of tears. 

Emma lay with her that night, when the patient was 
the better sleeper. But during the night at intervals she 
had the happiness of feeling Tony’s hand travelling to 
make sure of her. 


CHAMPIONS OF THE STBICKEN LADY 


Ml 


CHAPTER XXXV H 

AN EXHIBITION OF SOME CHAMPIONS OF THE STRICKEN 
LADY 

Close upon the hour of ten every morning the fortuitous 
meeting of two gentlemen at Mrs. Warwick’s housedoor 
was a signal for punctiliously stately greetings, the salu- 
tation of the raised hat and a bow of the head from a posi- 
tion of military erectness, followed by the remark : “ T 
trust you are well, sir:” to which the reply: “I am very 
well, sir, and trust you are the same,” was deemed a com- 
plimentary fulfilment of their mutual obligation in pres- 
ence. Mr. Sullivan Smith’s initiative imparted this 
exercise of formal manners to Mr. Arthur Rhodes, whose 
renewed appearance, at the minute of his own arrival, he 
viewed, as he did not conceal, with a disappointed and a 
reproving eye. The inquiry after the state of Mrs. War- 
wick’s health having received its tolerably comforting 
answer from the footman, they left their cards in turn, 
then descended the doorsteps, faced for the performance 
of the salute, and departed their contrary ways. 

The pleasing intelligence refreshed them one morning, 
that they would be welcomed by Lady Dunstane. There- 
upon Mr. Sullivan Smith wheeled about to Mr. Arthur 
Rhodes and observed to him: ‘‘Sir, I might claim, by 
right of seniority, to be the foremost of us two in offering 
my respects to the lady, but the way is open to you.” 

“Sir,” said Mr. Arthur Rhodes, “permit me to defer to 
your many superior titles to that distinction.” 

“The honour, sir, lies rather in the bestowing than in 
the taking.” 

“1 venture to think, sir, that though I cannot speak pure 
Castilian, I require no lesson from a Grandee of Spain in 
acknowledging the dues of my betters.” 

“I will avow myself conquered, sir, by your overpower* 
ing condescension,” said Mr. Sullivan Smith; “and I 
entreat you to ascribe my acceptance of your brief retire- 
ment to the urgent character of the business I have at 
heart.” 


348 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


He laid his fingers on the panting spot, and bowed. 

Mr. Arthur Rhodes, likewise bowing, deferentially fell 
to rearward. 

“If I mistake not, ” said the Irish gentleman, “I am 
indebted to Mr. Rhodes; and we have been joint partici- 
pators in the hospitality of Mrs. Warwick’s table.” 

The English gentleman replied: “It was there that I 
first had the pleasure of an acquaintance which is graven 
on my memory, as the words of the wise king on tablets of 
gold and silver.” 

Mr. Sullivan Smith gravely smiled at the unwonted 
match he had found in ceremonious humour, in Saxonland, 
and saying: “I shall not long detain you, Mr. Rhodes,” 
he passed through the doorway. 

Arthur waited for him, pacing up and down, for a quar- 
ter of an hour, when a totally different man reappeared in 
the same person, and was the Sullivan Smith of the rosy 
beaming features and princely heartiness. He was ac- 
costed : “ Now, my dear boy, it ’s your turn to try if you 
have a chance, and good luck go with ye. I ’ve said what 
I could on your behalf, for you ’re one of ten thousand in 
this country, you are.” 

Mr. Sullivan Smith had solemnified himself to proffer 
a sober petition within the walls of the newly widowed 
lady’s house; namely, for nothing less than that sweet 
lady’s now unfettered hand: and it had therefore been per- 
fectly natural to him, until his performance ended with 
the destruction of his hopes, to deliver himself in the high 
Castilian manner. Quite unexpected, however, was the 
reciprocal loftiness of tone spontaneously adopted by the 
young English squire, for whom, in consequence, he con- 
ceived a cordial relish; and as he paced in the footsteps 
of Arthur, anxious to quiet his curiosity by hearing how it 
had fared with one whom he had to suppose the second 
applicant, he kept ejaculating: “Not a bit! The fellow 
can’t be Saxon ! And she had a liking for him. She ’s 
nigh coming of the age when a woman takes to the chicks. 
Better he than another, if it ’s to be any one. For he ’s 
got fun in him; he carries his own condiments, instead of 
borrowing from the popular castors, as is their way over 
Here. But I might have known there 's always sure to 


CHAMPIONS OF THE STRICKEN LADY 349 

be salt and savour in the man she covers with her wing. 
Excepting, if you please, my dear lady, a bad shot you 
made at a rascal cur, no more worthy of you than Beelze- 
bub of Paradise. No matter! The daughters of Erin 
must share the fate of their mother Isle, that their tears 
may shine in the burst of sun to follow. For personal and 
patriotic motives, I would have cheered her and been like 
a wild ass combed and groomed and tamed by the adorable 
creature But her friend says there ’s not a whisk of a 
chance for me, and I must roam the desert, kicking up, 
and worshipping the star I hail brightest. They know me 
not, who think I can’t worship. Why, what were I with- 
out my star? At best a pickled porker.” 

Sullivan Smith became aware of a ravishing melodious- 
ness in the soliloquy, as well as a clean resemblance in the 
simile. He would certainly have proceeded to improvize 
impassioned verse, if he had not seen Arthur Rhodes on 
the pavement. “ So, here ’s the boy. Query, the face he 
wears.” 

“How kind of you to wait,” said Arthur. 

“We’ll call it sympathy, for convenience,” rejoined 
Sullivan Smith. “Well, and what next?” 

“You know as much as I do. Thank heaven, she is 
recovering.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Why, what more?” 

Arthur was jealously inspected. 

“You look open-hearted, my dear boy.” Sullivan Smith 
blew the sound of a reflective ahem. “Excuse me for 
cornemusing in your company,” he said. “But seriously, 
there was only one thing to pardon your hurrying to the 
lady’s door at such a season, when the wind tells tales to 
the world. She ’s down with a cold, you know.” 

“An influenza,” said Arthur. 

The simplicity of the acquiescence was vexatious to a 
champion desirous of hostilities, to vindicate the lady, in 
addition to his anxiety to cloak her sad plight. 

“She caught it from contact with one of the inhabitants 
sf this country. ’T is the fate of us Irish, and we’re con- 
demned to it for the sin of getting tired of our own. I 
begin to sneeze when I land at Holyhead. Unbutton a 


350 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


waistcoat here, in the hope of meeting a heart, and you ’re 
lucky in escaping a pulmonary attack of no common 
severity, while the dog that infected you scampers off, to 
celebrate his honeymoon mayhap. Ah, but call at her 
house in shoals, the world ’ll soon be saying it ’s worse 
than a coughing cold. If you came to lead her out of it 
in triumph, the laugh’d be with you, and the lady well 
covered. D’ ye understand? ” 

The allusion to the dog’s honeymoon had put Arthur 
Rhodes on the track of the darting cracker-metaphor. 

“I think I do,” he said. “She will soon be at Copsley 
— Lady Dunstane’s house, on the hills — and there we can 
see her.” 

“ And that ’s next to the happiness of consoling — if only 
it had been granted ! She ’s not an ordinary widow, to be 
caught when the tear of lamentation has opened a prac- 
ticable path or water-way to the poor nightcapped jewel 
within. So, and you’re a candid admirer, Mr. Rhodes! 
Well, and I ’ll be one with you; for there ’s not a star in 
the firmament more deserving of homage than that lady.” 

“Let ’s walk in the park and talk of her,” said Arthur. 
“There ’s no sweeter subject to me.” 

His boyish frankness rejoiced Sullivan Smith. 

“ As long as you like ! — nor to me ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ And that ever since I first beheld her on the night of a 
Ball in Dublin: before I had listened to a word of her 
speaking: and she bore her father’s Irish name: — none of 
your Warwicks and your . . . But let the cur go bark- 
ing. He can’t tell what he’s lost; perhaps he doesn’t 
care. And after inflicting his hydrophobia on her tender 
fame! Pooh, sir; you call it a civilized country, where 
you and I and dozens of others are ready to start up as 
brothers of the lady, to defend her, and are paralyzed by 
the Law. ’T is a law they ’ve instituted for the protection 
of dirty dogs — their majority ! ” 

“I owe more to Mrs. Warwick than to any soul I 
know,” said Arthur. 

“ Let ’s hear,” quoth Sullivan Smith ; proceeding: “ She ’s 
the Arabian Nights in person, that’s sure; and Shake- 
speare’s Plays, tragic and comuc; and the Book of Celtic 
History; and Erin incarnate — down with a cold, no matter 


CHAMPIONS OF THE STRICKEN LADY 


351 


where; but we know where it was caught. So there’s a 
pretty library for who ’s to own her now she *s enfranchized 
by circumstances; — and a poetical figure too ! ” 

He subsided for his companion to rhapsodize. 

Arthur was overcharged with feeling, and could say 
only : “It would be another world to me if I lost her.” 

“ True ; but what of the lady ? ” 

“No praise of mine could do her justice.” 

“That may be, but it ’s negative of yourself, and not a 
portrait of the object. Has n’t she the brain of Socrates 
— or better, say Minerva, on the bust of Venus, and the 
remainder of her finished off: to an exact resemblance of 
her patronymic Goddess of the bow and quiver?” 

“She has a wise head and is beautiful.” 

“And chaste.” 

Arthur reddened: he was prepared to maintain it, could 
not speak it.. 

“ She is to us in this London, what the run of water was 
to Theocritus in Sicily: the nearest to the visibly divine,” 
he said, and was applauded. 

“ Good, and on you go. Top me a few superlatives on 
that, and I bn your echo, my friend. Is n’t the seeing and 
listening to her like sitting under the silvery canopy of a 
fountain in high Summer ? ” 

“ All the comparisons are yours,” Arthur said enviously. 

“Mr. Rhodes, you are a poet, I believe, and all you 
require to loosen your tongue is a drop of Bacchus, so if 
you will do me the extreme honour to dine with me at my 
Club this evening, we ’ll resume the toast that should never 
be uttered dry. You reprove me justly, my friend.” I 

Arthur laughed and accepted. The Club was named, 
and the hour, and some items of the little dinner: the 
birds and the year of the wines. 

It surprised him to meet Mr. Redworth at the table of 
his host. A greater surprise was the partial thaw in 
Redworth’s bearing toward him. But, as it was partial, 
and he a youth and poor, not even the genial influences of 
Bacchus could lift him to loosen his tongue under the 
repressing presence of the man he knew to be his censor, 
though Sullivan Smith encouraged him with praises and 
opportunities. He thought of the many occasions when 


352 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Mrs. Warwick’s art of management had produced a tacit 
harmony between them. She had no peer. The dinner 
failed of the pleasure he had expected from it. Redworth’s 
bluntness killed the flying metaphors, and at the end of 
the entertainment he and Sullivan Smith were drumming 
upon politics. 

“Fancies he has the key of the Irish difficulty!” said 
the latter, clapping hand on his shoulder, by way of bless- 
ing, as they parted at the Club-steps. 

Redworth asked Arthur Rhodes the way he was going, 
and walked beside him. 

“I suppose you take exercise; don’t get colds and that 
kind of thing,” he remarked in the old bullying fashion; 
and changed it abruptly. “I am glad to have met you 
this evening. I hope you ’ll dine with me one day next 
week. Have you seen Mrs. Warwick lately? ” 

“She is unwell; she has been working too hard,” said 
Arthur. 

“Seriously unwell, do you mean?” 

“Lady Dunstane is at her house, and speaks of her 
recovering.” 

“ Ah. You ’ve not seen her? ” 

“Not yet.” 

“Well, good-night.” 

Redworth left him, and only when moved by gratitude 
to the lad for his mention of Mrs. Warwick’s “working 
too hard,” as the cause of her illness, recollected the 
promised dinner and the need for having his address. 

He had met Sullivan Smith accidentally in the morning 
and accepted the invitation to meet young Rhodes, because 
these two, of all men living, were for the moment dearest 
to him, as Diana Warwick’s true and simple champions; 
and he had intended a perfect cordiality toward them both ; 
the end being a semi-wrangle with the patriot, and a 
.patronizing bluntness with the boy; who, by the way, 
would hardly think him sincere in the offer of a seat at 
his table. He owned himself incomplete. He never could 
do the thing he meant, in the small matters not leading to 
fortune. But they led to happiness ! Redworth was guilty 
of a sigh: for now Diana Warwick stood free; doubly free, 
he was reduced to reflect in a wavering dubiousness. Hei 


CHAMPIONS OF THE STRICKEN LADY 


353 


more than inclination for Dacier, witnessed by him, and 
the shot of the world, flying randomly on the subject, had 
struck this cuirassier, making light of his armour, without 
causing any change of his habitual fresh countenance. As 
for the scandal, it had never shaken his faith in her nature. 
He thought of the passion. His heart struck at Diana’s, 
and whatever might by chance be true in the scandal 
affected him little, if but her heart were at liberty. That 
was the prize he coveted, having long read the nature of 
the woman and wedded his spirit to it. She would com- 
plete him. 

Of course, infatuated men argue likewise, and scandal 
does not move them. At a glance, the lower instincts and 
the higher spirit appear equally to have the philosophy of 
overlooking blemishes. The difference between appetite 
and love is shown when a man, after years of service, can 
hear and see, and admit the possible, and still desire in 
worship; knowing that we of earth are begrimed and must 
be cleansed for presentation daily on our passage through 
the miry ways, but that our souls, if flame of a soul shall 
have come of the agony of flesh, are beyond the baser mis- 
chances: partaking of them indeed, but sublimely. Now 
Redworth believed in the soul of Diana. For him it 
burned, and it was a celestial radiance about her, un- 
quenched by her shifting fortunes, her wilfulnesses, and, 
it might be, errors. She was a woman and weak; that is, 
not trained for strength. She was a soul; therefore per- 
petually pointing to growth in purification. He felt it, 
and even discerned it of her, if he could not have phrased 
it. The something sovereignly characteristic that aspired 
in Diana enchained him. With her, or rather with his 
thought of her soul, he understood the right union of 
women and men, from the roots to the flowering heights 
of that rare graft. She gave him comprehension of the 
meaning of love: a word in many mouths, not often ex- 
plained. With her, wound in his idea of her, he perceived 
it to signify a new start in our existence, a finer shoot of 
the tree stoutly planted in good gross earth; the senses 
running their live sap, and the minds companioned^ and 
the spirits made one by the whole-natured conjunction. 
In sooth, a happy prospect for the sons and daughters of 


354 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Earth, divinely indicating more than happiness: the speed- 
ing of us, compact of what we are, between the ascetic 
rocks and the sensual whirlpools, to the creation of certain 
nobler races, now very dimly imagined. 

Singularly enough, the man of these feelings was far 
from being a social rebel. His Diana conjured them forth 
in relation to her, but was not on his bosom to enlighten 
him generally. His notions of citizenship tolerated the 
female Pharisees, as ladies offering us an excellent social 
concrete where quicksands abound, and without quite jus- 
tifying the Lady Wathins and Constance Aspers of the 
world, whose virtues he could set down to accident or to 
acid blood, he considered them supportable and estimable 
where the Mrs. Fryar-Gunnetts were innumerable, threat- 
ening to become a majority; as they will constantly do 
while the sisterhood of the chaste are wattled in formalism 
and throned in sourness. 

Thoughts of Diana made phantoms of the reputable and 
their reverse alike. He could not choose but think of her. 
She was free; and he too; and they were as distant as the 
horizon sail and the raft-floating castaway. Her passion 
for Dacier might have burnt out her heart. And at present 
he had no claim to visit her, dared not intrude. He would 
have nothing to say, if he went, save to answer questions 
upon points of business: as to which, Lady Dunstane would 
certainly summon him when he was wanted. 

Biding in the park on a frosty morning, he came upon 
Sir Lukin, who looked gloomy and inquired for news of 
Diana Warwick, saying that his wife had forbidden him 
to call at her house just yet. “ She’s got a cold, you 
know, ” said Sir Lukin; adding, “ confoundedly hard on 
women! — eh? Obliged to keep up a show. And I ’d 
swear, by all that ’s holy, Diana Warwick hasn’t a spot, 
not a spot, to reproach herself with. I fancy I ought to 
know women by this time. And look here, Bedworth, 
last night — that is, I mean, yesterday evening, I broke 
with a woman — a lady of my acquaintance, you know, 
because she would go on scandal-mongering about Diana 
Warwick. I broke with her. I told her I ’d have out any 
man who abused Diana Warwick, and I broke with her. 
By Jove! Bedworth, those women can prove spitfires. 


CHAMPION S OF THE STRICKEN LADY 


35b 


They We bags of venom under their tongues, barley-sugar 
though they look — and that ’s her colour. But I broke 
with her for good. I doubt if I shall ever call on her 
again. And in point of fact, I won’t.” 

Mrs. Fryar-Gunnett was described in the colouring of 
the lady. 

Sir Lukin, after some further remarks, rode on, and 
Redworth mused on a moral world that allows a woman 
of Mrs. Fryar-Gunnett’s like to hang on to it, and to cast 
a stone at Diana; forgetful, in his championship, that 
Diana was not disallowed a similar licence. 

When he saw Emma Dunstane, some days later, she was 
in her carriage driving, as she said, to Lawyerland, for an 
interview with old Mr. Braddock, on her friend’s affairs. 
He took a seat beside her. “No, Tony is not well,” she 
replied to his question, under the veil of candour. “ She 
is recovering, but she — you can understand — suffered a 
shock. She is not able to attend to business, and certain 
things have to be done.” 

“I used to be her man of business,” Redworth observed, 

“ She speaks of your kind services. This is mere matter 
for lawyers.” 

“ She is recovering? ” 

“You may see her at Copsley next week. You can come 
down on Wednesdays or Saturdays? ” 

“Any day. Tell her I want her opinion upon the state 
of things.” 

“It will please her; but you will have to describe the 
state of things.” 

Emma feared she had said too much. She tried candour 
i again for concealment. “ My poor Tony has been struck 
down low. I suppose it is like losing a diseased limb: — 

: she has her freedom, at the cost of a blow to the system.” 

“She may be trusted for having strength,” said 
Redworth. 

“Yes.” Emma’s mild monosyllable was presently fol- 
lowed by an exclamation: “One has to experience the irony 
of Fate to comprehend how cruel it is ! ” Then she remem* 
bered that such language was peculiarly abhorrent to him. 

“ Irony of Fate ! ” he echoed her. “ I thought you were 
above that literary jargon. 


356 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“And 1 thought I was: or thought it could be put in a 
dialect practically explicable,” she answered, smiling at 
the lion roused. 

“Upon my word,” he burst out, “I should like to write 
a book of Fables, showing how donkeys get into grinding 
harness, and dogs lose their bones, and fools have their 
sconces cracked, and all run jabbering of the irony of Fate, 
to escape the annoyance of tracing the causes. And what 
are they? nine times out of ten, plain want of patience, or 
some debt for indulgence. There ’s a subject : • — let some 
one write, Fables in illustration of the irony of Fate: and 
I’ll undertake to tack-on my' grandmother’s maxims for a 
moral to each of ’em. We prate of that irony when we 
slink away from the lesson — the rod we conjure. And 
you to talk of Fate ! It ’s the seed we sow, individually 
or collectively. I ’m bound-up in the prosperity of the 
Country, and if the ship is wrecked, it ruins my fortune, 
but not me, unless I ’m bound-up in myself. At least I 
hope that’s my case.” 

He apologized for intruding Mr. Thomas Eedworth. 

His hearer looked at him, thinking he required a more 
finely pointed gift of speech for the ironical tongue, but 
relishing the tonic directness of his faculty of reason while 
she considered that the application of the phrase might be 
brought home to him so as to render “my Grandmother’s 
moral ” a conclusion less comfortingly, if quite intelligibly, 
summary. And then she thought of Tony’s piteous 
instance; and thinking with her heart, the tears insisted 
on that bitter irony of the heavens, which bestowed the 
long-withheld and coveted boon when it was empty of 
value or was but as a handful of spices to a shroud. 

Perceiving the moisture in her look, Eedworth under- 
stood that it was foolish to talk rationally. But on her 
return to her beloved, the real quality of the man had 
overcome her opposing state of sentiment, and she spoke 
of him with an iteration and throb in the voice that set a 
singular query whirring round Diana’s ears. Her senses 
were too heavy for a suspicion. 


A HEALTHY MIND DISTRAUGHT 


357 




CHAPTER XXXVIII 

CONVALESCENCE OF A HEALTHY MIND DISTRAUGHT 

From an abandonment that had the last pleasure of life 
in a willingness to yield it up, Diana rose with her friend’s 
help in some state of fortitude, resembling the effort of 
her feet to bear the weight of her body. She plucked her 
courage out of the dust to which her heart had been scat* 
I tered, and tasked herself to walk as the world does. But 
she was indisposed to compassionate herself in the manner 
i of the burdened world. She lashed the creature who could 
not raise a head like others, and made the endurance of 
torture a support, such as the pride of being is to men. 
She would not have seen any similarity to pride in it; 
would have deemed it the reverse. It was in fact the pain- 
ful gathering of the atoms composing pride. For she 
had not only suffered; she had done wrongly: and when 
that was acknowledged, by the light of her sufferings the 
wrong-doing appeared gigantic, chorussing eulogies of the 
man she had thought her lover: and who was her lover 
once, before the crime against him. In the opening of 
her bosom to Emma, he was painted a noble figure; one 
of those that Romance delights to harass for the sake of 
ultimately the more exquisitely rewarding. He hated 
treachery: she had been guilty of doing what he most 
hated. She glorified him for the incapacity to forgive; it 
was to her mind godlike. And her excuses of herself? 

At the first confession, she said she had none, and sul- 
lenly maintained that there was none to exonerate. Little 
by little her story was related — her version of the story : 
for not even as woman to woman, friend to great-hearted 
friend, pure soul to soul, could Diana tell of the state of 
shivering abjection in which Dacier had left her on the 
fatal night; of the many causes conducing to it, and of 
the chief. That was an unutterable secret, bound by all 
the laws of feminine civilization not to be betrayed. Her 
excessive self-abasement and exaltation of him who had 


358 


DIANA OP THE CKOSSWAYS 


struck her down, rendered it difficult to be understood; 
and not till Emma had revolved it and let it ripen in the 
mind some days could she perceive with any clearness her 
Tony’s motives, or mania. The very word Money thick- 
ened the riddle: for Tony knew that her friend’s purse 
was her own to dip in at her pleasure ; yet she, to escape 
so small an obligation, had committed the enormity for 
which she held the man blameless in spurning her. 

“You see what I am, Emmy,” Diana said. 

“What I do not see, is that he had grounds for striking 
so cruelly.” 

“I proved myself unworthy of him.” 

But does a man pretending to love a woman cut at one 
blow, for such a cause, the ties uniting her to him ? Un- 
worthiness of that kind is not commonly the capital 
offence in love. — Tony’s deep prostration and her resplen- 
dent picture of her judge and executioner, kept Emma 
questioning within herself. Gradually she became enlight- 
ened enough to distinguish in the man a known, if not 
common, type of the externally soft and polished, inter- 
nally hard and relentless, who are equal to the trials of 
love only as long as favouring circumstances and seemings 
nurse the fair object of their courtship. 

Her thoughts recurred to the madness driving Tony to 
betray the secret ; and the ascent unhelped to get a survey 
of it and her and the conditions, was mountainous. She toiled 
up but to enter the regions of cloud ; sure nevertheless that 
the obscurity was penetrable and excuses to be discovered 
somewhere. Having never wanted money herself, she was 
unable perfectly to realize the urgency of the need : she 
began, however, to comprehend that the very eminent 
gentleman, before whom all humau creatures were to bow 
in humility, had for an extended term considerably added 
to the expenses of Tony’s household, by inciting her to 
give those little dinners to his political supporters, and 
bringing comradec perpetually to supper-parties, careless 
of how it might affect her character and her purse. Surely 
an honourable man was bound to her in honour ? Tony’s 
remark: “I have the reptile in me, dear,” — her exaggera- 
tion of the act, in her resigned despair, — -was surely nc 
justification for his breaking from her, even-though he had 


A HEALTHY MIND DISTRAUGHT 


859 


discovered a vestige of the common “ reptile,” to leave her 
with a stain on her name ? — There would not have been a 
question about it if Tony had not exalted him so loftily, 
refusing, in visible pain, to hear him blamed. 

Danvers had dressed a bed for Lady Dunstane in her 
mistress’s chamber, where often during the night Emma 
caught a sound of stifled weeping or the long falling 
breath of wakeful grief. One night she asked whether 
Tony would like to have her by her side. 

“No, dear,” was the answer in the dark ; “but you know 
my old pensioners, the blind fifer and his wife ; I ’ve been 
thinking of them.” 

“ They were paid as they passed down the street yester 
day, my love.” 

“ Yes, dear, I hope so. But he flourishes his tune so 
absurdly. I ’ve been thinking, that is the part I have 
played, instead of doing the female’s duty of handing 
round the tin-cup for pennies. I won’t cry any more.” 

She sighed and turned to sleep, leaving Emma to dis- 
burden her heart in tears. 

For it seemed to her that Tony’s intellect was weakened. 
She not merely abased herself and exalted Dacier pre- 
posterously, she had sunk her intelligence in her sensa- 
tions : a state that she used to decry as the sin of mankind, 
the origin of error and blood. 

Strangely too, the proposal came from her, or the sugges- 
tion of it, notwithstanding her subjectedness to the nerves, 
that she should show her face in public. She said : “ I shall 
have to run about, Emmy, when I can fancy I am able to 
rattle up to the old mark. At present, I feel like a wrestler 
who has had a fall. As soon as the stiffness is over, it ’s 
best to make an appearance, for the sake of one’s backers, 
though I shall never be in the wrestling ring again.” 

“ That is a good decision — when you feel quite yourself, 
dear Tony,” Emma replied. 

“ I dare say I have disgraced my sex, but not as they 
suppose. I feel my new self already, and can make the 
poor brute go through fire on behalf of the old. What is 
the task ? — merely to drive a face 1 ” 

“It is not known/ 

“ It will be known/' 


360 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ But this is a sealed secret.” 

“Nothing is a secret that has been spoken. It’s in the 
air, and I have to breathe to live by it. And I would 
rather it were out. ‘ She betrayed him.’ Rather that, j 
than have them think — anything ! They will exclaim, 
How could she ! I have been unable to answer it to 
you — my own heart. How ? Oh ! our weakness is the ; 
swiftest dog to hunt us ; we cannot escape it. But I 
have the answer for them, that I trust with my whole 
soul none of them would have done the like.” 

“None, my Tony, would have taken it to the soul as 
you do.” 

“ I talk, dear. If I took it honestly, I should be dumb, 
soon dust. The moment we begin to speak, the guilty 
creature is running for cover. She could not otherwise ' 
exist. I am sensible of evasion when I open my lips.” 

“ But Tony has told me all.” 

“ I think I have. But if you excuse my conduct, I am 
certain I have not.” 

“Dear girl, accounting for it is not the same as 
excusing.” 

“Who can account for it! I was caught in a whirl — 
Oh ! nothing supernatural : my weakness ; which it pleases ' 
me to call a madness — shift the ninety-ninth ! When I 
drove down that night to Mr. Tonans, I am certain I had 
my clear wits, but I telt like a bolt. I saw things, but at 
too swift a rate for the conscience of them. Ah ! let never 
Necessity draw the bow of our weakness: it is the soul 
that is winged to its perdition. I remember I was writing 
a story, named The Man of Two Minds. I shall sign it 
By The Woman of Two Natures . If ever it is finished. 
Capacity for thinking should precede the act of writing. 

It should ; I do not say that it does. Capacity for assimi- 
lating the public taste and reproducing it is the com- 
monest. The stuff is perishable, but it pays us for our 
labour, and in so doing saves us from becoming tricksters. 
Now I can see that Mr. Red worth had it in that big head 
of his — the authoress outliving her income 1” 

“ He dared not speak.” 

“ Why did he not dare ? ” 

“ Would it have checked you ? ” 


A HEALTHY MIND DISTRAUGHT 


361 


“ T was a shot out of a gun, and I am glad he did not 
stand in my way. What power charged the gun, is another 
question Dada used to say, that it is the devil’s master- 
stroke to get us to accuse him. 1 So fare ye well, old Nickie 
Ben.’ My dear, I am a black sheep; a creature with a 
spotted reputation; I must wash and wash; and not with 
water — with sulphur-flames.” She sighed. “ I am down 
there where they burn. You should have let me lie and 
die. You were not kind. I was going quietly.” 

“My love !” cried Emma, overborne by a despair that 
she traced to the woman’s concealment of her bleeding 
heart, — “ you live for me. Do set your mind on that. 
Think of what you are bearing, as your debt to Emma. 
Will you?” 

Tony bowed her head mechanically. 

“ But I am in love with King Death, and must confess 
it,” she said. “That hideous eating you forced on me, 
snatched me from him. And I feel that if I had gone, I 
should have been mercifully forgiven by everybody.” 

“Except by me,” said Emma, embracing her. “Tony 
would have left her friend for her last voyage in mourning. 
And my dearest will live to know happiness.” 

“I have no more belief in it, Emmy.” 

“ The mistake of the world is to think happiness possible 
to the senses.” 

“ Yes ; we distil that fine essence through the senses ; 
and the act is called the pain of life. It is the death of 
them. So much I understand of what our existence must 
be. But I may grieve for having done so little.” 

“ That is the sound grief, with hope at the core — not in 
love with itself and wretchedly mortal, as we find self is 
under every shape it takes; especially the chief one.” 

“Name it.” 

“ It is best named Amor.” 

There was a writhing in the frame of the hearer, for she 
did want Love to be respected ; not shadowed by her mis- 
fortune. Her still-flushed senses protested on behalf of the 
eternalness of the passion, and she was obliged to think 
Emma’s cold condemnatory intellect came of the no-knowl- 
edge of it. 

A letter from Mr. Tonans, containing an enclosure, was a 


862 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


sharp trial of Diana’s endurance of the irony of Fate. She 
had spoken of the irony in allusion to her freedom. Now 
that, according to a communication from her lawyers, she 
was independent of the task of writing, the letter which 
paid the price of her misery bruised her heavily. 

“ Bead it and tear it all to strips,” she said in an abhor- 
rence to Emma, who rejoined : “ Shall I go at once and see 
him ? ” 

“ Can it serve any end? But throw it into the fire. Oh ! 
no simulation of virtue. There was not, I think, a stipulated 
return for what I did. But I perceive clearly — I can read 
only by events — that there was an understanding. You 
behold it. I went to him to sell it. He thanks me, says I 
served the good cause well. I have not that consolation. 
If I had thought of the cause — of anything high, it would 
have arrested me. On the fire with it ! ” 

The letter and square slip were consumed. Diana 
watched the blackening papers. 

“ So they cease their sinning, Emmy ; and as long as I 
am in torment, I may hope for grace. We talked of the 
irony. It means, the pain of fire.” 

“I spoke of the irony to Kedworth,” said Emma; “ inci- 
dentally, of course.” 

“ And he fumed?” 

“ He is really not altogether the Mr. Cuthbert Dering of 
your caricature. He is never less than acceptably rational. 
I won’t repeat his truisms ; but he said, or I deduced from 
what he said, that a grandmother’s maxims would expound 
the enigma.” 

“ Probably the simple is the deep, in relation to the 
mysteries of life,” said Diana, .whose wits had been pricked 
to a momentary activity by the letter. “ He behaves wisely ; 
so perhaps we are bound, to take his words for wisdom. 
Much nonsense is talked and written, and he is one of the 
world’s reserves, who need no more than enrolling, to make 
a sturdy phalanx of common sense. It’s a pity they are 
not enlisted and drilled to express themselves.” She 
relapsed. “ But neither he nor any of them could under- 
stand my case ! ” 

“ He puts the idea of an irony down to the guilt of im- 
patience, Tony.” 


A SHORT EXCURSION IN ANTI-CLIMAX 


863 


a Could there be a keener irony than that ? A friend of 
Dada’s waited patiently for a small fortune, and when it 
arrived, he was a worn-out man, just assisted to go decently 
to his grave.” 

“ But he may have gained in spirit by his patient 
waiting.” 

“Oh! true. We are warmer if we travel on foot sun- 
ward, but it is a discovery that we are colder if we take to 
ballooning upward. The material good reverses its benefits 
the more nearly we clasp it. All life is a lesson that we 
live to enjoy but in the spirit. I will brood on your 
saying.” 

“ It is your own saying, silly Tony, as the only things 
worth saying always are! ” exclaimed Emma, as she smiled 
happily to see her friend’s mind reviving, though it was 
faintly and in the dark. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 

OF NATURE WITH ONE OF HER CULTIVATED DAUGHTERS 
AND A SHORT EXCURSION IN ANTI-CLIMAX 

A mind that after a long season of oblivion in pain re- 
turns to wakefulness without a keen edge for the world, is 
much in danger of souring permanently. Diana’s love of 
nature saved her from the dire mischance during a two 
months’ residence at Copsley, by stupefying her senses to a 
state like the barely conscious breathing on the verge of 
sleep. February blew South-west for the pairing of the 
birds. A broad warm wind rolled clouds of every ambiguity 
of form in magnitude over peeping azure, or skimming 
upon lakes of blue and lightest green, or piling the amphi- 
theatre for majestic sunset. Or sometimes those daughters 
of the wind flew linked and low, semi-purple, threatening 
the shower they retained and teaching gloom to rouse a 
songful nest in the bosom of the viewer. Sometimes they 
were April, variable to soar with rain-skirts and sink with 
eun-shafts. Or they drenched wood and field for a day 


864 


DIANA OF TIIE CROSSWAYS 


and opened on the high South-western star. Daughters ot 
the wind, but shifty daughters of this wind of the drop- 
ping sun, they have to be watched to be loved in their 
transformations. 

Diana had Arthur Khodes and her faithful Leander for 
Walking companions. If Arthur said : “ Such a day would 
be considered melancholy by London people,” she thanked 
him in her heart, as a benefactor who had revealed to her 
things of the deepest. The simplest were her food. Thus 
does Nature restore us, by drugging the brain and making 
her creature confidingly animal for its new growth. She 
imagined herself to have lost the power to think ; certainly 
she had not the striving or the wish. Exercise of her 
limbs to reach a point of prospect, and of her ears and eyes 
to note what bird had piped, what flower was out on the 
banks, and the leaf of what tree it was that lay beneath the 
budding, satiated her daily desires. She gathered unknow- 
ingly a sheaf of landscapes, images, keys of dreamed 
horizons, that opened a world to her at any chance breath 
altering shape or hue : a different world from the one of 
her old ambition. Her fall had brought her renovatingly 
to earth, and the saving naturalness of the woman recreated 
her childlike, with shrouded recollections of her strange 
fcaste of life behind her ; with a tempered fresh blood to 
enjoy aimlessly, and what would, erewhile have been a bar- 
renness to her sensibilities. 

In time the craving was evolved for positive knowledge, 
and shells and stones and weeds were deposited on the 
library-table at Copsley, botanical and geological books 
comparingly examined, Emma Dunstane always eager to 
assist; for the samples wafted her into the heart of the 
w;oods* Poor Sir Lukin tried three days of their society, 
and was driven away headlong to Club-life. He sent down 
Redworth, with whom the walks of the zealous inquirers 
were profitable, though Diana, in acknowledging it to her- 
self, reserved a decided preference for her foregone ethereal 
mood, larger, and untroubled by the presence of a man. 
The suspicion Emma had sown was not excited to an alarm- 
ing activity ; but she began to question : could the best of 
men be simply a woman’s friend? — was not long service 
rather less than a proof of friendship ? She could be blind 


A SHORT EXCURSION IN ANTI-CLIMAX 365 


when her heart was on fire for another. Her passion for 
her liberty, however, received no ominous warning to look 
to the defences. He was the same blunt speaker, and 
knotted his brows as queerly as ever at Arthur, in a trans- 
parent calculation of how this fellow meant to gain his 
livelihood. She wilfully put it to the credit of Arthur’s 
tact that his elder was amiable, without denying her debt 
to the good man for leaving her illness and her appearance 
unmentioned. He forebore even to scan her features. 
Diana’s wan contemplativeness, in which the sparkle of 
meaning slowly rose to flash, as we see a bubble rising from 
the deeps of costal waters, caught at his heart while he 
talked his matter-of-fact. But her instinct of a present 
safety was true. She and Arthur discovered — and it set 
her first meditating whether she did know the man so very 
accurately — that he had printed, for private circulation, 
when at Harrow School, a little book, a record of his ob- 
servations in nature. Lady Dunstane was the casual be- 
trayer. He shrugged at the nonsense of a boy’s publishing ; 
anybody’s publishing he held for a doubtful proof of sanity. 
His excuse was, that he had not published opinions. Let 
us observe, and assist in our small sphere j not come 
mouthing to the footlights ! 

“ We retire,” Diana said, for herself and Arthur. 

“ The wise thing, is to avoid the position that enforces 
publishing,” said he, to the discomposure of his raw 
junior. 

In the fields he was genially helpful ; commending them 
to the study of the South-west wind, if they wanted to 
forecast the weather and understand the climate of our 
country. “ We have no Seasons, or only a shuffle of them. 
Old calendars give seven months of the year to the South- 
west, and that ’s about the average. Count on it, you may 
generally reckon what to expect. When you don’t have 
the excess for a year or two, you are drenched the year 
following.” He knew every bird by its flight and its pipe, 
habits, tricks, hints of sagacity homely with the original 
human ; and his remarks on the sensitive life of trees and 
herbs were a spell to his thirsty hearers. Something of 
astronomy he knew; but in relation to that science, he sank 
his voice, touchingly to Diana, who felt drawn to kinship 


366 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


with him when he had a pupil’s tone. An allusion by 
Arthur to the poetical work of Aratus, led to a memorably 
pleasant evening’s discourse upon the long reading of the 
stars by these our mortal eyes. Altogether the mind of 
the practical man became distinguishable to them as that 
of a plain brother of the poetic. Diana said of him to 
Arthur : “ He does not supply me with similes ; he points 
to the source of them.” Arthur, with envy of the man 
of positive knowledge, disguised an unstrung heart in 
agreeing. 

Eedworth alluded passingly to the condition of public 
affairs. Neither of them replied. Diana was wondering 
how one who perused the eternal of nature should lend a 
thought to the dusty temporary of the world. Subsequently 
she reflected that she was asking him to confine his great 
male appetite to the nibble of bread which nourished her 
immediate sense of life. Her reflections were thin as mist, 
coming and going like the mist, with no direction upon her 
brain, if they sprang from it. When he had gone, welcome 
though Arthur had seen him to be, she rebounded to a 
broader and cheerfuller liveliness. Arthur was flattered by 
an idea of her casting off incubus — a most worthy gentle- 
man, and a not perfectly sympathetic associate. Her eyes 
had their lost light in them, her step was brisker ; she 
challenged him to former games of conversation, excur- 
sions in blank verse here and there, as the mood dictated. 
They amused themselves, and Emma too. She revelled in 
seeing Tony’s younger face and hearing some of her natural 
outbursts. That Dacier never could have been the man for 
her, would have compressed and subjected her, and inflicted 
a further taste of bondage in marriage, she was assured. 
She hoped for the day when Tony would know it, and 
haply that another, whom she little comprehended, was her 
rightful mate. 

March continued South-westerly and grew rainier, as 
Eedworth had foretold, bidding them look for gales and 
storm, and then the change of wind. It came, after wet- 
tings of a couple scorning the refuge of dainty townsfolk 
under umbrellas, and proud of their likeness to dripping 
wayside wildflowers. Arthur stayed at Copsley for a week 
of the Crisp North-easter j and what was it, when he had 


A SHORT EXCURSION IN ANTI-CLIMAX 367 


taken his leave, that brought Tony home from her solitary 
walk in dejection ? It could not be her seriously regretting 
the absence of the youthful companion she had parted with 
gaily, appointing a time for another meeting on the heights, 
and recommending him to repair idle hours with strenuous 
work. The fit passed and was not explained. The winds 
are sharp with memory. The hard shrill wind crowed to 
her senses of an hour on the bleak sands of the French 
coast : the beginning of the curtained misery, inscribed as 
her happiness. She was next day prepared for her term in 
London with Emma, who promised her to make an expedi- 
tion at the end of it by way of holiday, to see The Cross- 
ways, which Mr. Red worth said was not tenanted. 

“ You won’t go through it like a captive ? ” said Emma. 

“ 1 don’t like it, dear,” Diana put up a comic mouth. 
“ The debts we owe ourselves are the hardest to pay. That 
is the discovery of advancing age : and I used to imagine it 
was quite the other way. But they are the debts of honour, 
imperative. I shall go through it grandly, you will see. 
If I am stopped at my first recreancy and turned directly 
the contrary way, I think I have courage.” 

“ You will not fear to meet . . . anyone ?” Emma said. 

“ The world and all it contains ! I am robust, eager for 
the fray, an Amazon, a brazen-faced hussy. Fear and I 
have parted. I shall not do you discredit. Besides you 
intend to have me back here with you ? And besides 
again; I burn to make a last brave appearance. I have not 
outraged the world, dear Emmy, whatever certain creatures 
in it may fancy.” 

She had come out of her dejectedness with a shrewder 
view of Dacier; equally painful, for it killed her romance, 
and changed the garden of their companionship in imagina- 
tion to a waste. Her clearing intellect prompted it, whilst 
her nature protested, and reviled her to uplift him. He 
had loved her. “ I shall die knowing that a man did love 
me once,” she said to her widowed heart, and set herself 
blushing and blanching. But the thought grew inveterate : 
“ He could not bear much.” And in her quick brain it shot 
up a crop of similitudes for the quality of that man’s love. 
She shuddered, as at a swift cleaving of cold steel. He had 
not given her a chance; he had not replied to her letter 


368 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


written with the pen dipped in her heart’s blood ; he must 
have gone straight away to the woman he married. This 
after almost justifying the scandalous world : « — after . . . 
She realized her sensations of that night when the house- 
door had closed on him ; her feeling of lost sovereignty, 
degradation, feminine danger, friendlessness : and she was 
unaware, and never knew, nor did the world ever know, 
what cunning had inspired the frosty Cupid to return to 
her and be warmed by striking a bargain for his weighty 
secret. She knew too well that she was not of the snows 
which do not melt, however high her conceit of herself 
might place her. Happily she now stood out of the sun, 
in a bracing temperature, Polar ; and her compassion for 
women was deeply sisterly in tenderness and understanding. 
She spoke of it to Emma as her gain. 

“ I have not seen that you required to suffer to be con- 
siderate/’ Emma said. 

“ It is on my conscience that I neglected Mary Paynham, 
among others — and because you did not take to her, 
Emmy.” 

“ The reading of it appears to me, that she has neglected 
you.” 

“ She was not in my confidence, and so I construe it as 
delicacy. One never loses by believing the best.” 

“ If one is not duped.” 

“ Expectations dupe us, not trust. The light of every 
soul burns upward. Of course, most of them are candles in 
the wind. Let us allow for atmospheric disturbance. Now 
I thank you, dear, for bringing me b&ck to life. I see that 
I was really a selfish suicide, because I feel I have power 
to do some good, and belong to the army. When we are 
beginning to reflect, as I do now, on a recovered basis of 
pure health, we have the world at the dawn and know we 
are young in it, with great riches, great things gained and 
greater to achieve. Personally I behold a queer little 
wriggling worm for myself ; but as one of the active world 
I stand high and shapely ; and the very thought of doing 
work, is like a draught of the desert-springs to me. In- 
. stead of which, I have once more to go about presenting 
my face to vindicate my character. Mr. Kedworth would 
admit no irony in that ! At all events, it is anti-climax.” 


A SHORT EXCURSION IN ANTI-CLIMAX 369 


“ I forgot to tell you, Tony, you have been proposed 
for,” said Emma ; and there was a rush of savage colour 
over Tony’s cheeks. 

Her apparent apprehensions were relieved by hearing the 
name of Mr. Sullivan Smith. 

“ My poor dear countryman ! And he thought me worthy, 
did he ? Some day, when we are past his repeating it, I ’ll 
thank him.” 

The fact of her smiling happily at the narration of Sul- 
livan Smith’s absurd proposal by mediatrix, proved to 
Emma how much her nature thirsted for the smallest sup- 
port in her self-esteem. 

The second campaign of London was of bad augury at 
the commencement, owing to the ridiculous intervention of 
a street-organ, that ground its pipes in a sprawling roar 
of one of the Puritani marches, just as the carriage was 
landing them at the door of her house. The notes were 
harsh, dissonant, drunken, interlocked and horribly torn 
asunder, intolerable to ears not keen to extract the tune 
through dreadful memories. Diana sat startled and para- 
lyzed. The melody crashed a revival of her days with 
Dacier, as in gibes ; and yet it reached to her heart. She 
imagined a Providence that was trying her on the thresh- 
old, striking at her feebleness. She had to lock herself in 
her room for an hour of deadly abandonment to misery, 
resembling the run of poison through her blood, before she 
could bear to lift eyes on her friend ; to whom subsequently 
she said : “ Emmy, there are wounds that cut sharp as the 
enchanter’s sword, and we don’t know we are in halves till 
some rough old intimate claps us on the back, merely to 
ask us how we are ! I have to join myself together again, 
as well as I can. It ’s done, dear j but don’t notice the 
cement.” 

“ You will be brave,” Emma petitioned. 

“ I long to show you I will.” 

The meeting with those who could guess a portion of her 
story,- did not disconcert her. To Lady Pennon and Lady 
Singleby, she was the brilliant Diana of her nominal lumi- 
nary issuing from cloud. Face and tongue, she was the 
same ; and once in the stream, she soon gathered its current 
topics and scattered her arrowy phrases. Lady Pennon ran 


B70 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


about with them, declaring that the beautiful speaker, it 
ever down, was up, and up to her finest mark. Mrs. Fryar- 
Gunnett had then become the blazing regnant antisocial 
star ; a distresser of domesticity, the magnetic attraction 
in the spirituous flames of that wild snapdragon bowl, called 
the Upper class ; and she was angelically blonde, a straw- 
coloured Beauty. “ A lovely wheatsheaf, if the head were 
ripe,” Diana said of her. 

“ Threshed, says , her fame, my dear,” Lady Pennon re- 
plied, otherwise allusive. 

“ A wheatsheaf of contention for the bread of wind,” 
said Diana, thinking of foolish Sir Lukin ; thoughtless of 
talking to a gossip. 

She would have shot a lighter dart, had she meant it to 
fly and fix. 

Proclaim, ye classics, what minor Goddess, or primal, Iris 
or Ate, sped straight away on wing to the empty wheat- 
sheaf-ears of the golden-visaged Amabel Fryar-Gunnett, 
daughter of Demeter in the field to behold, of Aphrodite 
in her rosy incendiarism for the many of men ; filling that 
pearly concave with a perversion of the uttered speech, 
such as never lady could have repeated, nor man, if less 
than a reaping harvester : which verily for women to hear, 
is to stamp a substantial damnatory verification upon the 
delivery of the saying : — 

“ Mrs. Warwick says of you, that you ’re a bundle of 
straws for everybody and bread for nobody.” 

Or, stranger speculation, through what, and what number 
of conduits, curious, and variously colouring, did it reach 
the fair Amabel of the infant-in-cradle smile, in that de- 
formation of the original utterance ! To pursue the thing, 
would be to enter the subtersensual perfumed caverns of a 
Romance of Fashionable Life, with no hope of coming back 
to light, other than by tail of lynx, like the great Arabian 
seaman, at the last page of the final chapter. A prospec- 
tively popular narrative indeed ! and coin to reward it, and 
applause. But I am reminded that a story properly closed 
on the marriage of the heroine Constance and her young 
Minister of State, has no time for conjuring chemists’ bou- 
quet of aristocracy to lure the native taste. When we have 
satisfied English sentiment, our task is done, in every 












A. SHORT EXCURSION IN ANTI-CLIMAX 371 


branch of art, I hear : and it will account to posterity for 
the condition of the branches. Those yet wakeful eccen- 
trics interested in such a person as Diana, to the extent of 
remaining attentive till the curtain falls, demand of me to 
gather-up the threads concerning her : which my gardener 
sweeping his pile of dead leaves before the storm and 
night, advises me to do speedily. But it happens that her 
resemblance to her sex and species of a civilized period 
plants the main threads in her bosom. Rogues and a po- 
liceman, or a hurried change of front of all the actors, are 
not a part of our slow machinery. 

Nor is she to show herself to advantage. Only those 
who read her woman’s blood and character with the head, 
will care for Diana of the Crossways now that the knot of 
her history has been unravelled. Some little love they 
must have for her likewise : and how it can be quickened 
on behalf of a woman who never sentimentalizes publicly, 
and has no dolly-dolly compliance, and muses on actual life, 
and fatigues with the exercise of brains, and is in sooth an 
alien : a princess of her kind and time, but a foreign one, 
speaking a language distinct from the mercantile, traffick- 
ing in ideas: — this is the problem. For to be true to her, 
one cannot attempt at propitiation. She said worse things 
of the world than that which was conveyed to the boxed 
ears of Mrs. Fryar-Gunnett. Accepting the war declared 
against her a second time, she performed the common men- 
tal trick in adversity of setting her personally known in- 
nocence to lessen her generally unknown error : but antici- 
pating that this might become known, and the other not ; 
and feeling that the motives of the acknowledged error had 
served to guard her from being the culprit of the charge 
she writhed under, she rushed out of a meditation com- 
pounded of mind and nerves, with derision of the world’s 
notion of innocence and estimate of error. It was a mood 
lasting through her stay in London, and longer, to the dis- 
comfort of one among her friends;* and it was worthy of 
The Anti-climax Expedition, as she called it. 

For the rest, her demeanour to the old monster world 
exacting the servility of her, in repayment for its tolerating 
countenance, was faultless. Emma beheld the introduction 
fco Mrs. Warwick of his bride, by Mr. Percy Dacier. She 


372 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


had watched their approach up the Ball-room, thinking, 
how differently would Bedworth and Tony have looked. 
Differently, had it been Tony and Dacier : but Emma could 
not persuade herself of a possible harmony between them, 
save at the cost of Tony’s expiation of the sin of the 
greater heart in a performance equivalent to Suttee. Per- 
fectly an English gentleman of the higher order, he seemed 
the effigy of a tombstone one, fixed upright, and civilly 
proud of his effigy bride. So far, Emma considered them 
fitted. She perceived his quick eye on her corner of the 
room ; necessarily, for a man of his breeding, without a 
change of expression. An emblem pertaining to her creed 'I 
was on the heroine’s neck ; also dependant at her waist. 
She was white from head to foot ; a symbol of purity. Her 
frail smilq appeared deeply studied in purity. Judging 
from her look and her reputation, Emma divined that the 
man was justly mated with a devious filmy sentimentalist, 
likely to “ fiddle harmonics on the sensual strings ” for him 
at a mad rate in the years to come. Such fiddling is indeed 
the peculiar diversion of the opulent of a fatly prosperous 
people ; who take it, one may concede to them, for an in- 
spired elimination of the higher notes of life : the very 
highest. That saying of Tony’s ripened with full signifi- 
cance to Emma now. Hot sensualism, but sham spiritual- 
ism, was the meaning; and however fine the notes, they 
come skilfully evoked of the under-brute in us. Reasoning 
it so, she thought it a saying for the penetration of the 
most polished and deceptive of the later human masks. 
She had besides, be it owned, a triumph in conjuring a sen- 
tence of her friend’s, like a sword’s edge, to meet them ; , 
for she was boiling angrily at the ironical destiny which 
had given to those Two a beclouding of her beloved, whom 
she could have rebuked in turn for her insane caprice of 
passion. 

But when her beloved stood-up to greet Mrs. Percy Dacier, 
all idea save tremulous admiration of the valiant woman, 
who had been wounded nigh to death, passed from Emma’s 
mind. Diana tempered her queenliness to address the fa- 
voured lady with smiles and phrases of gentle warmth, of 
goodness of nature ; and it became a halo rather than a 
personal eclipse that she cast. 


-1*1 ilk liiifiil 


A SHORT EXCURSION IN ANTI-CLIMAX 373 


Emma looked at Dacier. He wore the prescribed con- 
ventional air, subject in half a minute to a rapid blinking 
of the eyelids. His wife could have been inimically ima- 
gined fascinated and dwindling. A spot of colour came to 
her cheeks. She likewise began to blink. 

The happy couple bowed, proceeding ; and Emma had 
Dacier’s back for a study. We score on that flat slate of 
man, unattractive as it is to hostile observations, and un- 
protected, the device we choose. Her harshest, was the 
positive thought that he had taken the woman best suited 
to him. Doubtless, he was a man to prize the altar-candle 
above the lamp of day. She fancied the back-view of him 
shrunken and straitened : perhaps a mere hostile fancy : 
though it was conceivable that he should desire as little of 
these meetings as possible. Eclipses are not courted. 

The specially womanly exultation of Emma Dunstane in 
her friend’s noble attitude, seeing how their sex had been 
struck to the dust for a trifling error, easily to be over- 
looked by a manful lover, and had asserted its dignity in 
physical and moral splendour, in self-mastery and benign- 
ness, was unshared by Diana. As soon as the business of 
the expedition was over, her orders were issued for the 
sale of the lease of her house and all it contained. “ I 
would sell Danvers too,” she said, “but the creature de- 
clines to be treated as merchandize. It seems I have a 
faithful servant ; very much like my life, not quite to my 
taste ; the one thing out of the wreck ! — with my dog ! ” 

Before quitting her house for the return to Copsley, she 
had to grant Mr. Alexander Hepburn, post-haste from his 
Caledonia, a private interview. She came out of it notice- 
ably shattered. Nothing was related to Emma, beyond the 
remark: “I never knew till this morning the force of No 
in earnest.” The weighty little word — woman’s native 
watchdog and guardian, if she calls it to her aid in earnest 
— had encountered and withstood a fiery ancient host, 
astonished at its novel power of resistance. 

Emma contented herself with the result. “Were you 
much supplicated ? ” 

“ An Operatic Fourth-Act,” said Diana, by no means feel- 
ing so flippantly as she spoke. 

She received, while under the impression of this man’s 


874 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


honest, if primitive, ardour of courtship, or effort to cap- 
ture, a characteristic letter from Westlake, choicely phrased, 
containing presumeably an application for her hand, in the 
generous offer of his own. Her reply to a pursuer of that 
sort was easy. Comedy, after the barbaric attack, re- 
freshed her wits and reliance on her natural fencing 
weapons. To Westlake, the unwritten No was conveyed 
in a series of kindly ironic subterfuges, that played it like 
an impish flea across the pages, just giving the bloom of 
the word ; and rich smiles come to Emma’s life in read- 
ing the dexterous composition : which, however, proved so 
thoroughly to Westlake’s taste, that a second and a third 
exercise in the comedy of the negative had to be despatched 
to him from Copsley. 


CHAPTER XL 

IN WHICH WE SEE NATURE MAKING OF A WOMAN A 
MAID AGAIN, AND A THRICE WHIMSICAL 

On their way from London, after leaving the station, the 
drive through the valley led them past a field, where 
cricketers were at work bowling and batting under a verti- 
cal sun : not a very comprehensible sight to ladies, whose 
practical tendencies, as observers of the other sex, incline 
them to question the gain of such an expenditure of energy. 
The dispersal of the alphabet over a printed page is not less 
perplexing to the illiterate. As soon as Emma Hunstane 
discovered the Copsley head gamekeeper at one wicket, 
and, actually, Thomas Redworth facing him, bat in hand, 
she sat up, greatly interested. Sir Lukin stopped the car- 
riage at the gate, and reminded his wife that it was the 
day of the year for the men of his estate to encounter a 
valley Eleven. Redworth, like the good fellow he was, had 
come down by appointment in the morning out of London, 
to fill the number required, Copsley being weak this year. 
Eight of their wickets had fallen for a lamentable figure of 
&wenty-nine runs ; himself clean-bowled the first ball. But 


A WOMAN A MAID AGAIN 


375 


Tom Redworth had got fast hold of his wicket, and already 
scored fifty to his bat. “There! grand hit!” Sir Lukin 
cried, the ball flying hard at the rails. “Once a cricketer, 
always a cricketer, if you ’ve legs to fetch the runs. And 
Pullen’s not doing badly. His business is to stick. We 
shall mark them a hundred yet. I do hate a score on our 
side without the two 00’s.” He accounted for Red worth’s 
mixed colours by telling the ladies he had lent him his 
flannel jacket; which, against black trousers, looked odd 
but not ill. 

Gradually the enthusiasm of the booth and bystanders 
converted the flying of a leather ball into a subject of 
honourable excitement. 

“ And why are you doing nothing ? ” -Sir Lukin was 
asked ; and he explained : 

“My stumps are down: I’m married.” He took his 
wife’s hand prettily. 

Diana had a malicious prompting. She smothered the 
wasp, and said : “ Oh ! look at that ! ” 

“ Grand hit again ! Oh ! good ! good ! ” cried Sir Lukin, 
clapping to it, while the long-hit- off ran spinning his legs 
into one for an impossible catch ; and the batsmen were 
running and stretching bats, and the ball flying away, fly- 
ing back, and others after it, and still the batsmen running, 
till it seemed that the ball had escaped control and was 
leading the fielders on a coltish innings of its own, defiant 
of bowlers. 

Diana said merrily : “ Bravo our side ! ” 

“ Bravo, old Tom Redworth ! ” rejoined Sir Lukin. 
“ Four, and a three ! And capital weather, have n’t we ! 
Hope we shall have same sort day next month — return 
match, my ground. I’ve seen Tom Redworth score — old 
days — over two hundred t’ his bat. And he used to bowl 
too. But bowling wants practice. And, Emmy, look at 
the old fellows lining the booth, pipe in mouth and cheer 
ing. They do enjoy a day like this. We ’ll have a supper 
for fifty at Copsley’s : — it ’s fun. By Jove ! we must have 
reached up to near the hundred.” 

He commissioned a neighbouring boy to hie to the booth 
for the latest figures, and his emissary taught lightning a 
lesson. 


376 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Diana praised the little fellow. 

“ Yes, he ’s a real English boy,” said Emma. 

“We’ve thousands of ’em, thousands, ready to your 
hand ! ” exclaimed Sir Lukin ; “ and a confounded Radi- 
calized country ...” he muttered gloomily of “lets us 
be kicked ! . . . any amount of insult, meek as gruel ! . . . 
making of the finest army the world has ever seen ! You 
saw the papers this morning ? Good heaven ! how a nation. 
/Jl^With an atom of self-res pecknanlgo l orLstandlng^thaLaort-aL 
, hnTTytng frornforeig ner^ ! We do. We ’re insulted and 
we ^Ye^hreatenedTandive cal l for a hymn ! — Now then, 
f ^ 0 my* In anpw h at Is it T’T&Tr'cTse 

The boy had flown back. “ Ninety-two marked, sir ; 


1 


S 


ninety-nine runs; one more for the hundred.” 

“ Well reckoned ; and mind you ’re up at Copsley for the 
return-match. — And Tom Redworth says, they may bite 
their thumbs to the bone — they don’t hurt us. I tell him, 
he has no sense of national pride. He says, we ’re not 
prepared for war. We never are ! And whose the fault ? 
Says, we ’re a peaceful people, but ’ware who touches us ! 
He does n’t feel a kick. — Oh ! clever snick ! Hurrah for 
the hundred! — Two — three. No, don’t force the running, 
you fools ! — though they ’re wild with the ball : ha ! — no ! 
— all right !” The wicket stood. Hurrah ! 

The heat of the noonday sun compelled the ladies to 
drive on. 

“ Enthusiasm has the privilege of not knowing monot- 
ony,” said Emma. “ He looks well in flannels.” 

“ Yes, he does,” Diana replied, aware of the reddening 
despite her having spoken so simply. “ I think the chief 
advantage men have over us is in their amusements.” 

“ Their recreations.” 

“That is the better word.” Diana fanned her cheeks and 
said she was warm. “ I mean, the permanent advantage. 
For you see that age does not affect them.” 

“Tom Redworth is not a patriarch, my dear.” 

“ Well, he is what would be called mature.” 

“ He can’t be more than thirty-two oi* three ; and that, 
for a man of his constitution, means youth.” 

“Well, I can imagine him a patriarch playing cricket.” 

“I should imagine you imagine the possible chances 
He is the father who would pla^ with his boys.” 


A WOMAN A MAID AGAIN 


377 

“And lock up his girls in the nursery.” Diana mur* 
mured of the extraordinary heat. 

Emma begged her to remember his heterodox views of 
the education for girls. 

“He bats admirably,” said Diana. “ I wish I could bat 
half as well.” 

“ Your batting is with the tongue.” 

“Not so good. And a solid bat, or bludgeon, to defend 
the poor stumps, is surer. But there is the difference of 
cricket: — when your stumps are down, you are idle, at 
leisure ; not a miserable prisoner.” 

“ Supposing all marriages miserable.” 

“ To the mind of me,” said Diana, and observed Emma’s 
rather saddened eyelids for a proof that schemes to rob her 
of dear liberty were certainly planned. 

They conversed of expeditions to Redworth’s Berkshire 
mansion, and to The Crossways, untenanted at the moment, 
as he had informed Emma, who fancied it would please 
Tony to pass a night in the house she loved ; but as he was 
to be of the party she coldly acquiesced. 

The woman of flesh refuses pliancy when we want it of 
her, and will not, until it is her good pleasure, be bent to 
the development called a climax, as the puppet-woman, 
mother of Fiction and darling of the multitude ! ever 
amiably does, at a hint of the Nuptial Chapter. Diana in 
addition sustained the weight of brains. Neither with 
waxen optics nor with subservient jointings did she go 
through her pathways of the world. Her direct individu- 
ality rejected the performance of simpleton, and her lively 
blood, the warmer for its containment, quickened her to 
penetrate things and natures ; and if as yet, in justness to 
the loyal male friend, she forbore to name him conspirator, 
she read both him and Emma, whose inner bosom was 
revealed to her, without an effort to see. But her char- 
acteristic chasteness of mind, — not coldness of the blood, 
— which had supported an arduous conflict, past all exist* 
ing rights closely to depict, and which barbed her to pierce 
to the wishes threatening her freedom, deceived her now to 
think her flaming in blushes came of her relentless divina- 
tion on behalf of her recovered treasure : whereby the clear 
reading of others distracted the view of herself. For one 


378 


DIANA 01 THE CROSSWAYS 


may be the cleverer alive, and still hoodwinked while 
blood is young and warm. 

The perpetuity of the bontrast presented to her reflec- 
tions, of Red worth’s healthy, open, practical, cheering life, 
and her own freakishly interwinding, darkly penetrative, 
simulacrum of a life, cheerless as well as useless, forced 
her humiliated consciousness by degrees, in spite of pride, 
to the knowledge that she was engaged in a struggle with 
him ; and that he was the stronger ; — it might be, the 
worthier : she thought him the handsomer. He throve to 
the light of day, and she spun a silly web that meshed her 
in her intricacies. Her intuition of Emma’s wishes led 
to this ; he was constantly before her. She tried to laugh 
at the image of the concrete cricketer, half-flannelled, and 
red of face: the “lucky calculator,” as she named him to 
Emma, who shook her head, and sighed. The abstract, 
healthful and powerful man, able to play besides profitably 
working, defied those poor efforts. Consequently, at once 
she sent up a bubble to the skies, where it became a spheral 
realm, of far too fine an atmosphere for men to breathe in 
it ; and thither she transported herself at will, whenever 
the contrast, with its accompanying menace of a tyrannic 
subjugation, overshadowed her. In the above, the king- 
dom composed of her shattered romance of life and her 
present aspirings, she was free and safe. Nothing touched 
her there — nothing that Redworth did. She could not 
have admitted there her ideal of a hero. It was the sub- 
limation of a virgin’s conception of life, better fortified 
against the enemy. She peopled it with souls of the great 
and pure, gave it illimitable horizons, dreamy nooks, ravish- 
ing landscapes, melodies of the poets of music. Higher 
and more celestial than the Salvatore, it was likewise, now 
she could assure herself serenely, independent of the horrid 
blood-emotions. Living up there, she had not a feeling. 

The natural result of this habit of ascending to a super- 
lunary home, was the loss of an exact sense of how she 
was behaving below. At the Berkshire mansion, she wore 
a supercilious air, almost as icy as she accused the place of 
being. Emma knew she must have seen in the library a 
row of her literary ventures, exquisitely bound ; but there 
Was no allusion to the books. Mary Paynham’s portrait of 


A WOMAN A MAID AGAIN 


879 


Mrs. Warwick hung staring over the fireplace, and was 
criticized, as though its occupancy of that position had no 
significance. 

“ He thinks she has a streak of genius,” Diana said to 
Emma. 

“ It may be shown in time,” Emma replied, for a com- 
ment on the work. “ He should know, for the Spanish 
pictures are noble acquisitions.” 

“ They are, doubtless, good investments.” 

He had been foolish enough to say, in Diana’s hearing, 
that he considered the purchase of the Berkshire estate a 
good investment. It had not yet a name. She suggested 
various titles for Emma to propose : “ The Funds ; ” or 

“ Capital Towers ; ” or “ Dividend Manor ; ” or “ Railholm ; ” 
blind to the evidence of inflicting pain. Emma, from what 
she had guessed concerning the purchaser of The Crossways, 
apprehended a discovery there which might make Tony’s 
treatment of him unkinder, seeing that she appeared ac- 
tuated contrariously ; and only her invalid’s new happiness 
in the small excursions she was capable of taking to a defi- 
nite spot, of some homely attractiveness, moved her to follow 
her own proposal for the journey. Diana pleaded urgently, 
childishly in tone, to have Arthur Rhodes with them, “so 
as to be sure of a sympathetic companion for a walk on the 
Downs.” At The Crossways, they were soon aware that 
Mr. Redworth’s domestics were in attendance to serve them. 
Manifestly the house was his property, and not much of an 
investment ! The principal bed-room, her father’s once, and 
her own, devoted now to Emma’s use, appalled her with a 
resemblance to her London room. She had noticed some of 
her furniture at “Dividend Manor,” and chosen to consider 
it in the light of a bargain from a purchase at the sale of 
her goods. Here was her bed, her writing-table, her chair 
of authorship, desks, books, ornaments, water-colour sketches. 
And the drawing-room was fitted with her brackets and eta- 
geres, holding every knick-knack she had possessed and scat- 
tered, small bronzes, antiques, ivory junks, quaint ivory 
figures Chinese and Japanese, bits of porcelain, silver in- 
cense-urns, dozens of dainty sundries. She had a shamed 
curiosity to spy for an omission of one of them ; all were 
there. The Crossways had been turned into a trap. 


380 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Her reply to this blunt wooing, conspired, she felt justi 
fied in thinking, between him and Emma, was emphatic in 
muteness. She treated it as if unobserved. At night, in 
bed, the scene of his mission from Emma to her under this 
roof, barred her customary ascent to her planetary kingdom. 
Next day she took Arthur after breakfast for a walk on the 
Downs and remained absent till ten minutes before the hour 
of dinner. As to that young gentleman, he was near to 
being caressed in public. Arthur’s opinions, his good say- 
ings, were quoted; his excellent companionship on really 
poetical walks, and perfect sympathy, praised to his face. 
Challenged by her initiative to a kind of language that 
threw Kedworth out, he declaimed: “ We pace with some 
who make young morning stale.” 

“ Oh ! stale as peel of fruit long since consumed,” she 
chimed. 

And so they proceeded ; and they laughed, Emma smiled 
a little, Kedworth did the same beneath one of his question- 
ing frowns — a sort of fatherly grimace. 

A suspicion that this man, when infatuated, was able to 
practise the absurdest benevolence, the burlesque of chivalry, 
as a maw-admiring sex esteems it, stirred very naughty 
depths of the woman in Dania, labouring under her perverted 
mood. She put him to proof, for the chance of arming her 
wickedest to despise him. Arthur was petted, consulted, 
cited, flattered all round; all but caressed. She played, 
with a reserve, the maturish young woman smitten by an 
adorable youth ; and enjoyed doing it because she hoped for 
a visible effect — more paternal benevolence — and could 
do it so dispassionately. Coquetry, Emma thought, was 
most unworthily shown ; and it was of the worst descrip- 
tion. Innocent of conspiracy, she had seen the array of 
Tony’s lost household treasures : she wondered at a heart- 
lessness that would not even utter common thanks to the 
friendly man for the compliment of prizing her portrait and 
the things she had owned ; and there seemed an effort to 
wound him. 

The invalided woman, charitable with allowances for her 
erratic husband, could offer none for the woman of a long 
widowhood, that had become a trebly sensitive maidenhood ; 
abashed by her knowledge of the world, animated by her 


A WOMAN A MAID AGAIN 


381 


abounding blood ; cherishing her new freedom, dreading the 
menacer ; feeling, that though she held the citadel, she was 
daily less sure of its foundations, and that her hope of some 
last romance, in life was going; for in him shone not a 
glimpse. He appeared to Diana as a fatal power, attracting 
her without sympathy, benevolently overcoming : one o* 
those good men, strong men, who subdue and do not kindle. 
The enthralment revolted a nature capable of accepting 
subjection only by burning. In return for his moral excel- 
lence, she gave him the moral sentiments : esteem, gratitude, 
abstract admiration, perfect faith . But the man ? She could 
not now say she had never been loved ; and a flood of ten- 
derness rose in her bosom, swelling from springs that she 
had previously reproved with a desperate severity : the un- 
happy, unsatisfied yearning to be more than loved, to love. 
It was alive, out of the wreck of its first trial. This, the 
secret of her natural frailty, was bitter to her pride : chastely- 
minded as she was, it whelmed her. And then her comic 
imagination pictured Redworth dramatically making love. 
And to a widow ! It proved him to be senseless of romance. 
Poetic men take aim at maidens. His devotedness to a 
widow was charged against him by the widow’s shudder at 
antecedents distasteful to her soul, a discoloration of Jier 
life. She wished to look entirely forward, as upon a world 
washed clear of night, not to be cast back on her antecedents 
by practical wooings or words of love ; to live spiritually ; 
free of the shower at her eyelids attendant on any idea of 
her loving. The woman who talked of the sentimentalist’s 
“ fiddling harmonics,” herself stressed the material chords, 
in her attempt to escape out of herself and away from her 
pursuer. 

Meanwhile she was as little conscious of what she was 
doing as of how she appeared. Arthur went about with 
the moony air of surcharged sweetness, and a speculation 
on it, alternately tiptoe and prostrate. More of her intoxi- 
cating wine was administered to him, in utter thoughtless- 
ness of consequences to one who was but a boy and a friend, 
almost of her own rearing. She told Emma, when leaving 
The Crossways, that she had no desire to look on the place 
again : she wondered at Mr. Redworth’s liking such a soli- 
tude- In truth, the look back on it let her perceive that 


882 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


her husband haunted it, and disfigured the man, of real 
generosity, as her heart confessed, but whom she accused 
of a lack of prescient delicacy, for not knowing she would 
and must be haunted there. Blaming him, her fountain of 
colour shot up, at a murmur of her unjustness and the poor 
man’s hopes. 

A week later, the youth she publicly named “ her Arthur ” 
came down to Copsley with news of his having been recom- 
mended by Mr. Red worth for the post of secretary to an 
old Whig nobleman famous for his patronage of men of 
letters. And besides, he expected to inherit, he said, and 
gazed in a way to sharpen her instincts. The wine he had 
drunk of late from her flowing vintage was in his eyes. 
They were on their usual rambles out along the heights. 
“ Accept, by all means, and thank Mr. Redworth,” said she, 
speeding her tongue to intercept him. “ Literature is a 
good stick and a bad horse. Indeed, I ought to know. 
You can always write ; I hope you will.” 

She stepped fast, hearing: “Mrs. Warwick — Diana! 
May I take your hand ? ” 

This was her pretty piece of work ! “ Why should you ? 

If you speak my Christian name, no : you forfeit any pre- 
text. And pray, don’t loiter. We are going at the pace of 
the firm of Potter and Dawdle, and you know they never got 
their shutters down till it was time to put them up again.” 

Nimble-footed as she was, she pressed ahead too fleetly 
for amorous eloquence to have a chance. She heard 
“Diana! ” twice, through the rattling of her discourse and 
flapping of her dress. 

“Christian names are coin that seem to have an indif- 
ferent valuation of the property they claim,” she said in 
the Copsley garden; “and as for hands, at meeting and 
parting, here is the friendliest you could have. Only don’t 
look rueful. My dear Arthur, spare me that, or I shall 
blame myself horribly.” 

His chance had gone, and he composed his face. No 
hope in speaking had nerved him; merely the passion to 
speak. Diana understood the state, and pitied the natu- 
rally modest young fellow, and chafed at herself as a sense- 
less incendiaiy, who did mischief right and left, from 
seeking to shun the apparently inevitable. A side-thought 


A WOMAN A MAID AGAIN 


388 


intruded, that he would have done his wooing poetically — 
not in the burly storm, or bull-Saxon, she apprehended. 
Supposing it imperative with her to choose ? She looked 
up, and the bird of broader wing darkened the whole sky, 
bidding her know that she had no choice. 

Emma was requested to make Mr. Redworth acquainted 
with her story, all of it : — “ So that this exalted friend- 
ship of his may be shaken to a common level. He has an un- 
bearably high estimate of me, and it hurts me. Tell him all; 
and more than even you have known : — but for his coming 
to me, on the eve of your passing under the surgeon’s hands, 
I should have gone — flung the world my glove ! A matter 
of minutes. Ten minutes later ! The train was to start 
for France at eight, and I was awaited. I have to thank 
heaven that the man was one of those who can strike icily. 
Tell Mr. Redworth what I say. You two converse upon 
every subject. One may be too loftily respected — in my 
case. By and by — for he is a tolerant reader of life and 
women, I think — we shall be humdrum friends of the 
lasting order.” 

Emma’s cheeks were as red as Diana’s. “ I fancy Tom 
Redworth has not much to learn concerning any person he 
cares for,” she said. “ You like him ? I have lost touch 
of you, my dear, and ask.” 

“ I like him : that I can say. He is everything I am not. 
But now I am free, the sense of being undeservedly over- 
esteemed imposes fetters, and I don’t like them. I have 
been called a Beauty. Rightly or other, I have had a 
Beauty’s career; and a curious caged beast’s life I have 
found it. Will you promise me to speak to him ? And 
also, thank him for helping Arthur Rhodes to a situation.” 

At this, the tears fell from her. And so enigmatical had 
she grown to Emma, that her bosom friend took them for 
a confessed attachment to the youth. 

Diana’s wretched emotion shamed her from putting any 
inquiries whether Redworth had been told. He came re- 
peatedly, and showed no change of face, always continuing 
in the form of huge hovering griffin ; until an idea, instead 
of the monster bird, struck her. Might she not, after all, 
be cowering under imagination ? The very maidenly idea 
ner womanliness — to reproach her remainder of 


384 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


pride, not to see more accurately. It was the reason why 
she resolved, against Emma’s extreme entreaties, to take 
lodgings in the South valley below the heights, where she 
could be independent of fancies and perpetual visitors, but 
near her beloved at any summons of urgency : which Emma 
would not habitually send because of the coming of a particu- 
lar gentleman. Dresses were left at Copsley for dining: and 
sleeping there upon occasion, and poor Danvers, despairing 
over the riddle of her mistress, was condemned to the 
melancholy descent. “ It ’s my belief,” she confided to 
Lady Dunstane’s maid Bartlett, “ she ’ll hate men all her 
life after that Mr. Dacier.” 

If women were deceived, and the riddle deceived herself, 
there is excuse for a plain man like Redworth in not having 
the slightest clue to the daily shifting feminine maze he 
beheld. The strange thing was, that during her maiden 
time she had never been shifty or flighty, invariably limpid 
and direct. 


CHAPTER XLI 

CONTAINS A REVELATION OF THE ORIGIN OF THE TIGRESS 
IN DIANA 

An afternoon of high summer blazed over London 
through the City’s awning of smoke, and the three classes 
of the population, relaxed by the weariful engagement with 
what to them was a fruitless heat, were severally bathing 
their ideas in dreams of the contrast possible to embrace : 
breezy seas or moors, aerial Alps, cool beer. The latter, if 
confessedly the lower comfort, is the readier at command ; 
and Thomas Redworth, whose perspiring frame was direct- 
ing his inward vision to fly for solace to a trim new yacht, 
built on his lines, beckoning from Southampton Water, had 
some of the amusement proper to things plucked off the 
levels, in the conversation of a couple of journeymen close 
ahead of him, as he made his way from a quiet street of 
brokers’ offices to a City Bank. One asked the other if he 
had ever tried any of that cold stuff they were now selling 


THE ORIGIN OF THE TIGRESS IN DIANA 385 


out of barrows, with cream. His companion answered, 
that he had not got much opinion of stuff of the sort; and 
what was it like ? 

“Well, it’s cheap, it ain’t bad; it’s cooling. But it 
ain’t refreshing.” 

“ Just what I reckoned all that newfangle rubbish.” 

Without a consultation, the conservatives in beverage 
filed with a smart turn about, worthy of veterans at parade 
on the drill-ground, into a public-house; and a dialogue 
chiefly remarkable for absence of point, furnished matter 
to the politician’s head of the hearer. Provided that their 
beer was unadulterated! Beer they would have; and why 
not, in weather like this ? But how to make the publican 
honest ! And he was not the only trickster preying on the 
multitudinous poor copper crowd, rightly to be protected 
by the silver and the golden. Revelations of the arts prac- 
tised to plump them with raw-earth and minerals in* the 
guise of nourishment, had recently knocked at the door of 
the general conscience and obtained a civil reply from the 
footman. Repulsive as the thought was to one still hold- 
ing to Whiggish Liberalism, though flying various Radical 
kites, he was caught by the decisive ultra-torrent, and 
whirled to admit the necessity for the interference of the 
State, to stop the poisoning of the poor. Upper classes 
have never legislated systematically in their interests ; and 
quid . . . rabidae tradis ovile lupae ? says one of the multi- 
tude. We may be seeing fangs of wolves where fleeces 
waxed. The State that makes it a vital principle to con- 
cern itself with the helpless poor, meets instead of waiting 
for Democracy ; which is a perilous flood but when it is 
dammed. Or else, in course of time, luxurious yachting, 
my friend, will encounter other reefs and breakers than 
briny ocean’s ! Capital, whereat Diana Warwick aimed 
her superbest sneer, has* its instant duties. She theorized 
on the side of poverty, and might do so : he had no right 
to be theorizing on the side of riches. Across St. George’s 
Channel, the cry for humanity in Capital was an agony. 
He ought to be there, doing, not cogitating. The post of 
Irish Secretary must be won by real service founded on 
absolute local knowledge. Yes, and sympathy, if you like$ 
but sympathy is for proving, not prating. . . . 

25 


386 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


These were the meditations of a man in love ; veins, 
arteries, headpiece in love, and constantly brooding at a 
solitary height over the beautiful coveted object; only too 
bewildered by her multifarious evanescent feminine eva- 
sions, as of colours on a ruffled water, to think of pouncing : 
for he could do nothing to soften, nothing that seemed to 
please her : and all the while, the motive of her mind im- 
pelled him in reflection beyond practicable limits: even 
pointing him to apt quotations ! Either he thought within 
her thoughts, or his own were at her disposal. Nor was it 
sufficient for him to be sensible of her influence, to restrain 
the impetus he took from her. He had already wedded 
her morally, and much that he did, as well as whatever he 
debated, came of Diana ; more than if they had been coupled, 
when his downright practical good sense could have spoken. 
She iield him suspended, swaying him in that posture ; and 
he was not a whit ashamed of it. The beloved woman was 
throned on the very highest of the man. 

Furthermore, not being encouraged, he had his peculiar 
reason for delay, though now he could offer her wealth. She 
had once in his hearing derided the unpleasant hiss of the 
ungainly English matron’s title of Mrs. There was no 
harm in the accustomed title, to his taste ; but she disliking 
it, he did the same, on her special behalf ; and the prospect, 
funereally draped, of a title sweeter-sounding to her ears, 
was above his horizon. Bear in mind, that he underwent 
the reverse of encouragement. Any small thing to please 
her was magnified, and the anticipation of it nerved the 
modest hopes of one who deemed himself and any man 
alive deeply her inferior. 

Such was the mood of the lover condemned to hear an- 
other malignant scandal defiling the name of the woman 
he worshipped. Sir Lukin Dun^Jbane, extremely hurried, 
bumped him on the lower step of the busy Bank, and said: 
“ Pardon ! ” and “ Ha ! Bedworth ! making money ? ” 

“ Why, what are you up to down here ? ” he was asked, 
and he answered: “Down to the Tower, to an officer 
quartered there. Not bad quarters, but an infernal distance. 
Business.” 

Having cloaked his expedition to the distance with the 
comprehensive word, he repeated it ; by which he feared he 


THE ORIGIN OF THE TIGRESS INDIANA 387 

had rendered it too significant, and he said: “No, no; 
nothing particular ; ” and that caused the secret he contained 
to swell in his breast rebelliously, informing the candid 
creature of the fact of his hating to lie : whereupon thus he 
poured himself out, in the quieter bustle of an alley, off the 
main thoroughfare. “You’re a friend of hers. I’m sure 
you care for her reputation ; you ’re an old friend of hers, 
and she ’s my wife’s dearest friend : and I ’m fond of her 
too ; and I ought to be, and ought to know, and do know : 
— pure ? Strike off my fist if there ’s a spot on her 
character ! And a scoundrel like that fellow Wroxeter ! — 
Damnedest rage I ever was in! — Swears . . . down at 
Lockton . . . when she was a girl. Why, Red worth, I can 
tell you, when Diana Warwick was a girl ! — ” 

Red worth stopped him. “ Did he say it in your presence ? ” 
Sir Lukin was drawn-up by the harsh question. “ Well, 
no ; not exactly.” He tried to hesitate, but he was in the 
hot vein of a confidence and he wanted advice. “The cur 
said it to a woman — hang the woman ! And she hates 
Diana Warwick : I can’t tell why — a regular snake’s hate. 
By Jove ! how women can hate ! ” 

“ Who is the woman ? ” said Redworth. 

Sir Lukin complained of the mob at his elbows. “ I don’t 
like mentioning names here.” 

A convenient open door of offices invited him to drag his 
receptacle, and possible counsellor, into the passage, where 
immediately he bethought him of a postponement of the 
distinct communication ; but the vein was too hot. “I say, 
Redworth, I wish you ’d dine with me. Let ’s drive up to 
my Club. — Very well, two words. And I warn you, I shall 
call him out, and make it appear it’s about another woman, 
who’ll like nothing so much, if I know the Jezebel. Some 
women are hussies , let ’em be handsome as houris. And 
she ’s a fire-ship; by heaven, she is ! Come, you ’re a friend 
of my wife’s, but you ’re a man of the world and my friend, 
and you know how fellows are tempted, Tom Redworth. — 
Cur though he is, he ’s likely to step out and receive a les- 
son. — Well, he ’s the favoured cavalier for the present . . . 
h’m . . . Fryar-Gunnett. Swears he told her, circumstan- 
tially ; and it was down at Lockton, when Diana Warwick 
was a girl. Swears she ’ll spit her venom at her, so that 


388 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


Diana Warwick sha’n’t hold her head up in London Society, 
what with that cur Wroxeter, Old Dannisburgh, and Dacier. 
And it does count a list, does n’t it ? — confound the hand 
some hag ! She ’s jealous of a dark rival. I ’ve been down 
to Colonel Harts wood at the Tower, and he thinks Wroxeter 
deserves horsewhipping, and we may manage it. I know 
you’re dead against duelling; and so am I, on my honour. 
But you see there are cases where a lady must be protected ; 
and anything new, left to circulate against a lady who has 
been talked of twice — Oh, by Jove ! it must be stopped. 
If she has a male friend on earth, it must be stopped on the 
spot.” 

Redworth eyed Sir Lukin curiously through his wrath. 

“ We’ll drive up to your Club,” he said. 

“ Hartswood dines with me this evening, to confer,” re- 
joined Sir Lukin. “Will you meet him ?” 

“ 1 can't,” said Redworth, “ I have to see a lady, whose 
affairs I have been attending to in the City ; and I ’m 
engaged for the evening. You perceive, my good fellow,” 
he resumed, as they rolled along, “ this is a delicate busi- 
ness. You have to consider your wife. Mrs. Warwick’s 
name won’t come up, but another woman’s will.” 

“ 1 meet Wroxeter at a gambling-house he frequents, and 
publicly call him cheat — slap his face, if need be.” 

“Sure to!” repeated Redworth. “No stupid pretext 
will quash the woman ’s name. Now, such a thing as a duel 
would give pain enough.” 

“ Of course ; I understand,” Sir Lukin nodded his clear 
comprehension. “ But what is it you advise, to trounce the 
scoundrel, and silence him ? ” 

“ Leave it to me for a day. Let me have your word that 
you won’t take a step : positively — neither you nor 
Colonel Hartswood. I ’ll see you by appointment at your 
Club.” Redworth looked up over the chimneys. “ We ’re 
going to have a storm and a gale, I can tell you.” 

“ Gale and storm ! ” cried Sir Lukin ; “ what has that 
got to do with it ? ” 

“ Think of something else for a time.” 

“ And that brute of a woman — deuced handsome she is ! 
— if you care for fair women, Redworth : — she ’s a Venus 
jumped slap out of the waves, and the Devil for ,sire — that 


THE ORIGIN OF THE TIGRESS IN DIANA 389 


you learn : — running about, sowing her lies. She ’s a yel- 
low witch. Oh ! but she ’s a shameless minx. And a 
black-leg cur like Wroxeter! Any woman intimate with 
a fellow like that, stamps herself. I loathe her. Sort of 
woman who swears in the morning you ’re the only man on 
earth ; and next day — that evening — engaged ! — fee to 
Polly Hopkins — and it’s a gentleman, a nobleman, my 
lord ! — been going on behind your back half the season ! — 
and she is n’t hissed when she abuses a lady, a saint in 
comparison ! You know the world, old fellow : — Brighton, 
Richmond, visits to a friend as deep in the bog. How 
Fryar-Gunnett — a man, after all — can stand it! And 
drives of an afternoon for an airing — by heaven ! You ’re 
out of that mess, Red worth: not much taste for the sex; 
and you ’re right, you ’re lucky. Upon my word, the cor- 
ruption of society in the present day is awful ; it ’s appall- 
ing. — I rattled at her : and oh ! dear me, perks on her hind 
heels and defies me to prove : and she ’ s no pretender, but 
hopes she’s as good as any of my ‘chaste Dianas.’ My 
dear old friend, it’ s when you come upon women of that 
kind you have a sickener. And I ’m bound by the best 
there is in a man — honour, gratitude, all the list — to 
defend Diana Warwick.” 

“ So, you see, for your wife’s sake, your name can’t be 
hung on a woman of that kind,” said Redworth. " I ’ll call 
here the day after to-morrow at three p. m.” 

Sir Lukin descended and vainly pressed Redworth to 
run up into his Club for refreshment. Said he roguishly : 
“ Who ’s the lady ? ” 

The tone threw Redworth on his frankness. 

“ The lady I ’ve been doing business for in the City, is 
Miss Paynham.” 

“I saw her once at Copsley ; good-looking. Cleverish ? ” 

“ She has ability.” 

Entering his Club, Sir Lukin was accosted in the reading- 
room by a cavalry officer, a Colonel Launay, an old Harro- 
vian, who stood at the window and asked him whether it was 
not Tom Redworth in the cab. Another, of the same School, 
standing squared before a sheet of one of the evening news- 
papers, heard the name and joined them, saying: “Tom 
Redworth is going to be married, some fellow told me.” 


890 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

“He ’ll make a deuced good husband to any woman — if 
it ’s true,” said Sir Lukin, with Miss Paynham ringing in 
his head. “ He ’s a cool-blooded old boy, and likes women 
for their intellects.” 

Colonel Launay hummed in meditative emphasis. He 
stared at vacancy with a tranced eye, and turning a similar 
gaze on Sir Lukin, as if through him, burst out : “ Oh, by 
George, I say, what a hugging that woman ’ll get l ” 

The cocking of ears and queries of Sir Lukin put him to 
the test of his right to the remark ; for it sounded of occult 
acquaintance with interesting subterranean facts ; and 
there was a communication, in brief syllables and the dot 
language, crudely masculine. Immensely surprised, Sir 
Lukin exclaimed : “ Of course ! when fellows live quietly 
and are careful of themselves. Ah ! you may think you 
know a man for years, and you don’t : you don’t know more 
than an inch or two of him. Why, of course, Tom Red- 
wprth ’d be uxorious — the very man 1 And tell us what 
has become of the Pirefly now? One never sees her. 
Did n’t complain ? ” 

“Very much the contrary.” 

Both gentlemen were grave, believing their knowledge 
in the subterranean world of a wealthy city to give them 
a positive cognizance of female humanity; and the sub- 
stance of Colonel Launay ’s communication had its impres- 
siveness for them. 

“Well, it’s a turn right-about-face for me,” said Sir 
Lukin. “ What a world we live in ! I fancy I ’ve hit on 
the woman he means to marry; — had an idea of another 
woman once ; but he *s one of your friendly fellows with 
Women. That’s how it was I took him for a fish. Great 
mistake, I admit. But Tom Redworth’s a man of morals 
after all ; and when those men do break loose for a plunge 
— ha ! Have you ever boxed with him ? Well, he keeps 
himself in training, I can tell you.” 

Sir Lukin’s round of visits drew him at night to Lady 
Singleby’s, where he sighted the identical young lady of his 
thoughts, Miss Paynham, temporarily a guest of the house; 
and he talked to her of Redworth, and had the satisfaction 
to spy a blush, a rageing blush : which avowal presented 
her to his view as an exceedingly good-looking girl ; so 


THE ORIGIN OF THE TIGRESS IN DIANA 391 


that he began mentally to praise Bedworth for a manly 
superiority to small trifles and the world ’s tattle. 

“ You saw him to-day/’ he said. 

She answered: “Yes. He goes down to Copsley to- 
morrow.” 

“ I think not,” said Sir Lukin. 

“ I have it from him.” She closed her eyelids in 
speaking. 

“ He and I have some rather serious business in town.” 

“ Serious ? ” 

“Don’t be alarmed : not concerning him.” 

“ Whom, then ? You have told me so much — I have a 
right to know.” 

“ Not an atom of danger, I assure you ? ” 

“ It concerns Mrs. Warwick ! ” said she. 

Sir Lukin thought the guess extraordinary. He pre- 
served an impenetrable air. But he had spoken enough to 
set that giddy head spinning. 

Nowhere during the night was Mrs. Fryar-Gunnett 
visible. Earlier than usual, she was riding next day in the 
Bow, alone for perhaps two minutes, and Sir Lukin passed 
her, formally saluting. He could not help the look behind 
him, she sat so bewitchingly on horseback! He looked, and 
behold, her riding-whip was raised erect from the elbow. 
It was his horse that wheeled ; compulsorily he was borne 
at a short canter to her side. 

“ Your commands ? ” 

The handsome Amabel threw him a sombre glance from 
the corners of her uplifted eyelids ; and snakish he felt it ; 
but her colour and the line of her face went well with 
sulleuness; and, her arts of fascination cast aside, she 
fascinated him more in seeming homelier, girlish. If 
the trial of her beauty of a woman in a temper can bear the 
strain, she has attractive lures indeed ; irresistible to the 
amorous idler: and when, in addition, being the guilty 
person, she plays the injured, her show of temper on the 
taking face pitches him into perplexity with his own 
emotions, creating a desire to strike and be stricken, howl 
and set howling, which is of the happier augury for tender 
reconcilement on the terms of the gentleman on his kneecap. 

“You’ve been doing; a pretty thing!” she said, and 


392 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


briefly she named her house and half an hour, and flew, 
Sir Lukin was left to admire the figure of the horsewoman. 
Really, her figure had an air of vindicating her successfully, 
except for the poison she spat at Diana Warwick. And 
what pretty thing had he been doing ? He reviewed 
dozens of speculations until the impossibility of seizing one 
determined him to go to Mrs. Fryar-Gunnett at the end of 
the half-hour — “ Just to see what these women have to say 
for themselves.” 

Some big advance drops of Redworth’s thunderstorm 
drawing gloomily overhead, warned him to be quick and 
get his horse into stables. Dismounted, the sensational 
man was irresolute, suspecting a female trap. But curi- 
osity combined with the instinctive turning of his nose in 
the direction of the lady’s house, led him thither, to an accom- 
paniment of celestial growls, which impressed him, judging 
by that naughty-girl face of hers and the woman’s tongue 
she had, as a likely prelude to the scene to come below. 


CHAPTER XLII 

THE PENULTIMATE I SHOWING A FINAL STRUGGLE FOR 
LIBERTY AND RUN INTO HARNESS 

The prophet of the storm had forgotten his prediction; 
which, however, was of small concern to him, apart from 
the ducking he received midway between the valley and the 
heights of Copsley ; whither he was bound, on a mission so 
serious that, according to his custom in such instances, he 
chose to take counsel of his active legs : an adviseable course 
when the brain wants clearing and the heart fortifying. 
Diana’s face was clearly before him through the deluge ; 
now in single features, the dimple running from her mouth, 
the dark bright eyes and cut of eyelids, and nostrils alive 
under their lightning ; now in her whole radiant smile, or 
m usefully listening, nursing a thought. Or she was 
obscured, and he felt the face. The individuality of it 
had him by the heart, beyond his powers of visioning. On 


THE PENULTIMATE 


393 


his arrival, he stood in the hall, adrip like one of the trees 
of the lawn, laughing at Lady Dunstane’s anxious excla- 
mations. His portmanteau had come and he was expected; 
she hurried out at the first ringing of the bell, to greet and 
reproach him for walking in such weather. 

“ Diana has left me,” she said, when he reappeared in 
dry clothing. “ We are neighbours ; she has taken cottage- 
lodgings at Selshall, about an hour’s walk: — one of her 
wild dreams of independence. Are you disappointed ? ” 

“ I am,” Red worth confessed. 

Emma coloured. “ She requires an immense deal of 
humouring at present. The fit will wear off ; only we 
must wait for it. Any menace to her precious liberty 
makes her prickly. She is passing the day with the 
Pettigrews, who have taken a place near her village for a 
month. She promised to dine and sleep here, if she 
returned in time. What is your news ? ” 

“ Nothing ; the world wags on.” 

“ You have nothing special to tell her ? ” 

“ Nothing;” he hummed; “ nothing, I fancy, that she 
does not know.” 

“You said you were disappointed.” 

“ It ’s always a pleasure to see her.” 

“ Even in her worst moods, I find it so.” 

“ Oh ! moodsj ” quoth Red worth. 

“ My friend, they are to be reckoned, with women.” 

“Certainly; what I meant was, that I don’t count them 
against women.” 

“ Good ; but my meaning was ... I think I remember 
your once comparing them and the weather ; and you spoke 
of the ‘ one point more variable in women.’ You may fore- 
stall your storms. There is no calculating the effect of a 
few little words at a wrong season.” 

“With women! I suppose not. I have no pretension 
to a knowledge of the sex.” 

Emma imagined she had spoken plainly enough, if he 
had immediate designs; and she was not sure "of that, and 
wished rather to shun his confidences while Tony was in 
her young widowhood, revelling in her joy of liberty. By 
and by, was her thought : perhaps next year. She dreaded 
Tony’s refusal of the yoke, and her iron-hardness to the 


394 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS 


dearest of men proposing it : and moreover, her further to 
be apprehended holding to the refusal, for the sake of con- 
sistency, if it was once uttered. For her own sake, she. 
shrank from hearing intentions, that distressing the good 
man, she would have to discountenance. His candour in 
confessing disappointment, and his open face, his excellent 
sense too, gave her some assurance of his not being fool- 
ishly impetuous. After he had read to her for an hour, as 
his habit was on evenings and wet days, their discussion of 
this and that in the book lulled any doubts she had of his 
prudence, enough to render it even a dubious point whether 
she might be speculating upon a wealthy bachelor in the 
old-fashioned ultra-feminine manner; the ,which she so 
abhorred that she rejected the idea. Consequently, Red- 
worth’s proposal to walk down to the valley for Diana, and 
bring her back, struck her as natural when a shaft of west- 
ern sunshine from a whitened edge of raincloud struck her 
windows. She let him go without an intimated monition 
or a thought of one ; thinking simply that her Tony would 
be more likely to come, having him for escort. Those are 
silly women who are always imagining designs and in- 
trigues and future palpitations in the commonest actions 
of either sex. Emma Dunstane leaned to the contrast be- 
tween herself and them. 

Danvers was at the house about sunset , 9 reporting her 
mistress to be on her way, with Mr. Red worth. The 
maid’s tale of the dreadful state of the lanes, accounted 
for their tardiness; and besides the sunset had been., 
magnificent. Diana knocked at Emma’s bedroom door, 
to say, outside, hurriedly in passing, how splendid the 
sunset had been, and beg for an extra five minutes. Tak- 
ing full fifteen, she swam into the drawing-room, lively 
with kisses on Emma’s cheeks, and excuses, referring her 
misconduct in being late to the seductions of “ Sol ” in his 
glory. Redworth said he had rarely seen so wonderful 
a sunset. The result of their unanimity stirred Emma’s 
bosom to m'atch-making regrets; and the walk of the 
pair together, alone under the propitious flaming heavens, 
appeared to her now as an opportunity lost. From sisterly 
sympathy, she fancied she could understand Tony’s liberty- 
loving reluctance : she had no comprehension of the back 


THE PENULTIMATE 


395 

wardness of the man beholding the dear woman handsomer 
than in her. maiden or her married time: and sprightlier as 
well. She chatted deliciously, and drew Redworth to talk 
his best on his choicer subjects, playing over them like a fire- 
wisp, determined at once to flounder him and to make him 
shine. Her tender esteem for the man was transparent 
through it all; and Emma, whose evening had gone hap- 
pily between them, said to her, in their privacy, before 
parting : “ You seemed to have been inspired by ‘ Sol/ my 
dear. You do like him, don’t you ? ” 

Diana vowed she adored him; and with a face of laugh- 
ter in rosy suffusion, put Sol for Redworth, Redworth for 
Sol ; but, watchful of Emma’s visage, said finally : “ If you 
mean the mortal man, I think him up to almost all your 
hyperboles — as far as men go; and he departed to his 
night’s rest, which I hope will be good, like a king. Hot 
to admire him, would argue me senseless, heartless. I 
do; I have reason to.” 

“And you make him the butt of your ridicule, Tony.” 

“Ho; I said ‘ like a king; ’ and he is one. He has, to 
me, morally the grandeur of your Sol sinking, Caesar 
stabbed, Cato on the sword-point. He is Roman, Spartan, 
Imperial; English, if you like, the pick of the land. It 
is an honour to call him friend, and I do trust he will 
choose the pick among us, to make her a happy woman 
— if she’s for running in harness. There, I can’t say 
more.” 

Emma had to be satisfied with it, for the present. 

They were astonished at breakfast by seeing. Sir Lukin 
ride past the windows. He entered with the veritable 
appetite of a cavalier who had ridden from London fast- 
ing; and why he had come at that early hour, he was too 
hungry to. explain. The ladies retired to read their letters 
by the morning’s post; whereupon Sir Lukin called to 
Redworth: “I met that woman in the park yesterday, and 
had to stand a volley. I wen": beating about London for 
you all the afternoon and evening. She swears you rated 
her like a scullery wench, and threatened to ruin Wroxeter. 
Did you see him? She says, the story’s true in one par- 
ticular, that he did snatch a kiss, and got mauled. Hot so 
much to pay for it ! But, what a, ruffian — eh? ” 


396 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“I saw him,” said Redworth. “He’s one of the new 
set of noblemen who take bribes to serve as baits for 
transactions in the City. They help to the ruin of their 
order, or are signs of its decay. We won’t judge it by 
him. He favoured me with his ‘ word of honour ’ that the 
thing you heard was entirely a misstatement, and so forth: 

— apologized, I suppose. He mumbled something.” 

“ A thorough cur ! ” 

“ He professed his readiness to fight, if either of us was 
not contented.” 

“He spoke to the wrong man. I ’ve half a mind to ride 
back and have him out for that rascal ‘ osculation ’ — and 
the lady unwilling ! — and she a young one, a girl, under 
the protection of the house ! By Jove ! Redworth, when 
you come to consider the scoundrels men can be, it stirs a 
fellow’s bile. There ’s a deal of that sort of villany going 

— and succeeding sometimes ! He deserves the whip or a 
bullet.” 

“A sermon from Lukin Dunstane might punish him.” 

“Oh ! I ’m a sinner, I know. But, go and tell one wo- 
man of another woman, and that a lie ! That ’s beyond me.” 

“The gradations of the deeps are perhaps measureable 
to those who are in them.” 

“The sermon’s at me — pop!” said Sir Lukin. “By 
the way, I ’m coming round to think Diana Warwick was 
right when she used to jibe at me for throwing up my 
commission. Idleness is the devil — or mother of him. 
I manage my estates; but the truth is, it doesn’t occupy 
my mind.” 

“Your time.” 

“My mind, I say.” 

“ Whichever you DleaseJ' 

“You’re crusty to-day, Redworth. Let me tell you, I 
think — and hard too, when the fit ’s on me. However, 
you did right in stopping — I’ll own — a piece of folly, 
and shutting the mouths of those two; though it caused me 
to come in for a regular drencher. But a pretty woman 
in a right-down termagant passion is good theatre; because 
it can’t last, at that pace; and you ’re sure of your agree- 
able tableau. Not that I trust her ten minutes out of 
sisrht — or any woman, except one or two ; my wife and 


THE PENULTIMATE 


397 


Diana Warwick. Trust those you ’ve tried, old boy. 
Diana Warwick ought to be taught to thank you ; though 
I don’t know how it ’s to be done.” 

“The fact of it is,” Red worth frowned and rose, “I ’ve 
done mischief. I had no right to mix myself in it. I ’m 
seldom caught off my feet by an impulse; but I was. I 
took the fever from you.” 

He squared his figure at the window, and looked up on 
a driving sky. 

“Come, let’s play open cards, Tom Redworth,” said Sir 
Lukin, leaving the table and joining his friend by the 
window. “You moral men are doomed to be marrying 
men, always; and quite right. Not that one doesn’t hear 
a roundabout thing or two about you: no harm. Very 
much the contrary : — as the world goes. But you ’re the 
man to marry a wife; and if I guess the lady, she ’s a sen- 
sible girl and won’t be jealous. I ’d swear she only waits 
for asking.” 

“Then you don’t guess the lady,” said Redworth. 

“ Mary Paynham ? ” 

The desperate half-laugh greeting the name convinced 
more than a dozen denials. 

Sir Lukin kept edging round for a full view of the friend 
who shunned inspection. “But is it? . . . can it be? it 
must be, after all ! . . . why, of course it is ! But the 
thing staring us in the face is just what we never see. 
Just the husband for her ! — and she ’s the wife ! Why, 
Diana Warwick ’s the very woman, of course ! I remember 
I used to think so before she was free to wed.” 

“She is not of that opinion.” Redworth blew a heavy 
breath; and it should be chronicled as a sigh; but it was 
hugely masculine. 

“Because you didn’t attack, the moment she was free; 
that’s what upset my calculations,” the sagacious gentle- 
man continued, for a vindication of his acuteness: then 
seizing the reply: “Refuses? You don’t mean to say 
you ’re the man to take a refusal ? and from a green widow 
in the blush ? Did you see her cheeks when she was peep- 
ing at the letter in her hand ? She colours at half a word 
— takes the lift of a finger for Hymen coming. And lots 
of fellows are after her; I know it from Emmy. But 


398 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


you ’re not the man to be refused. You ’re her friend 
her champion. That woman Fryar-Gunnett would have it 
you were the favoured lover, and sneered at my talk of old 
friendship. Women are always down dead on the facts; 
can’t put them off a scent ! ” 

“ There ’s the mischief ! ” Redworth blew again. “ I had 
no right to be championing Mrs. Warwick’s name. Or 
the world won’t give it, at all events. I ’m a blundering 
donkey. Yes, she wishes to keep her liberty. And, upon 
my soul, I ’m in love with everything she wishes ! 1 ’ve 

got the habit.” 

“Habit be hanged ! ” cried Sir Lukin. “You ’re in love 
with the woman. I know a little more of you now, Mr. 
Tom. You ’re a fellow in earnest about what you do. 
You ’re feeling it now, on the rack, by heaven ! though 
you keep a bold face. Did she speak positively ? — sort 
of feminine of ‘ you ’re the monster, not the man ? ’ or 
measured little doctor’s dose of pity ? — worse sign ! 
You ’re not going?” 

“If you’ll drive me down in half an hour,” - said 
Redworth. 

“Give me an hour,” Sir Lukin replied, and went straight 
to his wife’s blue-room. 

Diana was roused from a meditation on a letter she held, 
by the entrance of Emma in her bed-chamber, to whom she 
said : “ I have here the very craziest bit of writing ! — but 
what is disturbing you, dear?” 

Emma sat beside her, panting and composing her lips to 
speak. “ Do you love me ? I throw policy to the winds, 
if only I can batter at you for your heart and find it ! 
Tony, do you love me? But don’t answer: give me your 
hand. You have rejected him ! ” 

“ He has told you ? ” 

“No. He is not the man to cry out for a wound. He 
heard in London — Lukin has had the courage to tell me, 
after his fashion : — Tom Redworth heard an old story, 
coming from one of the baser kind of women: grossly 
false, he knew. I mention only Lord Wroxeter and 
Lockton. He went to man and woman both, and had it 
refuted, and Stopped their tongues, on peril; as he of all 
men is able to do when he wills it.” 


THE PENULTIMATE 


899 


Observing the quick change in Tony’s eyes, Emma 
exclaimed: “How you looked disdain when you asked 
whether he had told me ! But why are you the handsome 
tigress to him, of all men living ! The dear fellow, dear 
to me at least ! since the day he first saw you, has wor- 
shipped you and striven to serve you : — and harder than 
any Scriptural service to have the beloved woman to wife. 
I know nothing to compare with it, for he is a man of 
warmth. He is one of those rare men of honour who can 
command their passion; who venerate when they love: 
and those are the men that women select for punishment! 
Yes, you ! It is to the woman he loves that he cannot show 
himself as he is, because he is at her feet. You have 
managed to stamp your spirit on him; and as a conse- 
quence, he defends you now, for flinging him off. And 
now his chief regret is, that he has caused his name to be 
coupled with yours. I suppose he had some poor hope, 
seeing you free. Or else the impulse to protect the woman 
of his heart and soul was too strong. I have seen what he 
suffered, years back, at the news of your engagement.” 

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t,” cried Tony, tears running 
over, and her dream of freedom, her visions of romance, 
drowning. 

“It was like the snapping of the branch of an oak, when 
the trunk stands firm,” Emma resumed, in her desire to 
scourge as well as to soften. “ But similes applied to him 
will strike you as incongruous.” Tony swayed her body, 
for a negative, very girlishly and consciously. “He prob- 
ably did not woo you in a poetic style, or the courtly by 
prescription.” Again Tony swayed; she had to hug her- 
self under the stripes, and felt as if alone at sea, with her 
dear heavens pelting. “You have sneered at him for his 
calculating — to his face: and it was when he was compar- 
atively poor that he calculated — • to his cost ! — that he 
dared not ask you to marry a man who could not offer you 
a tithe of what he considered fit for the peerless Woman. 
Peerless, I admit. There he was not wrong. But if he 
had valued you half a grain less, he might have won you. 
You talk much of chivalry; you conceive a superhuman 
ideal, to which you fit a very indifferent wooden model, 
while the man of all the world the most chivalrous ! . . • 


400 


DIANA OF THE CKOSSWAYS ' 


He is a man quite other from what you think him . any* 
thing but a 1 Cuthbert Dering ’ or a ‘ Man of Two Minds.’ 
He was in the drawing-room below, on the day I received 
your last maiden letter from The Crossways — now his 
property, in the hope of making it yours.” 

“I behaved abominably there!” interposed Tony, with 
a gasp. 

“Let it pass. At any rate, that was the prick of a 
needle, not the blow of a sword.” 

“ But marriage, dear Emmy! marriage! Is marriage to 
be the end of me? ” 

“ What amazing apotheosis have you in prospect ? And 
are you steering so particularly well by yourself?” 

“Miserably! But I can dream. And the thought of a 
husband cuts me from any dreaming. It ’s all dead flat 
earth at once ! ” 

“ Would you have rejected him when you were a girl ? ” 

“1 think so.” 

“ The superior merits of another ? ...” 

“Oh, no, no, no, no! I might have accepted him; and 
I might not have made him happy. I wanted a hero, and 
the jewelled garb and the feather did not suit him.” 

“No; he is not that description of lay-figure. You have 
dressed it, and gemmed it, and — made your discovery. 
Here is a true man; and if you can find me any of your 
heroes to match him, I will thank you. He came on the 
day I speak of, to consult me as to whether, with the 
income lie then had . . . Well, I had to tell him you 
were engaged. The man has never wavered in his love of 
you since that day. He has had to bear something.” 

This was an electrical bolt into Tony’s bosom, shaking 
her from self-pity and shame to remorseful pity of the 
suffering lover; and the tears ran in streams, as she said: 
“He bore it, Emmy, he bore it.” She sobbed out: “And 
he went on building a fortune and batting! Whatever he 
undertakes he does perfectly — approve of the pattern or 
not. Oh! I have no doubt he had his nest of wishes 
piping to him all the while: only it seems quaint, dear, 
quaint, and against everything we ’ve. been reading of 
lovers ! Love was his bread and butter ! ” Her dark eyes 
showered. “And to tell you what you do not know of 


THE PENULTIMATE 


403 


him, his way of making love is really,” she sobbed, 
‘‘pretty. It ... it took me by surprise; I was expect- 
ing a bellow and an assault of horns; and if, dear: — you 
will say, what boarding school girl have you got with you: 
and I feel myself getting childish: — if Sol in his glory 
had not been so m . . . majestically m . . . magnificent, 
nor seemed to show me the king . . . kingdom of my 
dreams, I might have stammered the opposite word to the 
one he heard. Last night, "when he took my hand kindly 
before going to bed, I had a fit for dropping on my knees 
lo him. I saw him bleed, and he held himself right 
royally. I told you he did; — Sol in his moral grandeur! 
How infinitely above the physical monarch — is he not, 
Emmy ? What one dislikes, is the devotion of all that 
grandeur to win a widow. It should be a maiden prin 
cess. You feel it so, I am sure. And here am I, as if a 
maiden princess were I, demanding romantic accessories 
of rubious vapour in the man condescending to implore the 
widow to wed him. But, tell me, does he know every- 
thing of his widow — everything? I shall not have to gc 
through the frightful chapter? ” 

“He is a man with his eyes awake; he knows as much 
as any husband could require to know,” said Emma; add- 
ing: “My darling! he trusts you. It is the soul of the 
man that loves you, as it is mine. You will not tease 
him ? Promise me. Give yourself frankly. You see it 
clearly before you.” 

“I see compulsion, my dear. What I see, is a regiment 
of Proverbs, bearing placards instead of guns, and each 
one a taunt at women, especially at widows. They march ; 
they form square; they enclose me in the middle, and I 
have their inscriptions to digest. Read that crazy letter 
from Mary Paynham while I am putting on my bonnet. 
I perceive I have been crying like a raw creature in her 
teens. I don’t know myself. An advantage of the darkei 
complexions is our speedier concealment of the traces.” 

Emma read Miss Paynham’s letter, and returned it with 
the comment: “Utterly crazy.” Tony said: “Is it not? 
I am to ‘ Pause before I trifle with a noble heart too long. ’ 
She is to ‘ have her happiness in the constant prayer for 
ours; 9 and she is ‘ warned by one of those intimations 

~ 20 


402 DIAHA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

never failing her, that he runs a serious danger/ It reads 
like a Wizard’s Almanack. And here: 4 Homogeneity of 
sentiment the most perfect, is unable to contend with the 
fatal charm, which exercised by an indifferent person, must 
be ascribed to original predestination/ She should be 
under the wing of Lady Wathin. There is the mother for 
such chicks! But I’ll own to you, Emmy, that after the 
perusal, I did ask myself a question as to my likeness of 
late to the writer. I have drivelled ... I was shudder- 
ing over it when you came in. I have sentimentalized up 
to thin smoke. And she tells a truth When she says I 
am not to ‘count social cleverness’ — she means volu- 
bility — ‘ as a warrant for domineering a capacious intelli- 
gence:’ — because of the gentleman’s modesty. Agreed: 
I have done it; I am contrite. I am going into slavery 
to make amends for presumption. Banality, thy name is 
marriage ! ” 

“Your business is to accept life as we have it,” said 
Emma; and Tony shrugged. She was precipitate in going 
forth to her commonplace fate, and scarcely looked at the 
man requested by Emma to escort her to her cottage. After 
their departure, Emma fell into laughter at the last words 
with the kiss of her cheeks: “Here goes old Ireland!” 
But, from her look and from what she had said upstairs, 
Emma could believe that the singular sprite of girlishness 
invading and governing her latterly, had yielded place to 
the woman she loved. 


CHAPTER XLIII 

NUPTIAL CHAPTER; AND OF HOW A BARELY WILLING WOMAN 
WAS LED TO BLOOM WITH THE NUPTIAL SENTIMENT 

Emma watched them on their way through the park, till 
they rounded the beechwood, talking,, it could be surmised, 
of ordinary matters; the face of the gentleman turning at 
times to his companion’s, which steadily fronted the gale. 
She left the ensuing to a prayer for their good direction, 
with a chuckle at Tony’s evident feeling of a ludicrous 


NUPTIAL CHAPTER 


.403 


posture, and the desperate rush of her agile limbs to have 
it over. But her prayer throbbed almost to a supplication 
that the wrong done to her beloved by Dacier — the wound 
to her own sisterly pride rankling as an injury to her sex, 
might be cancelled through the union of the woman noble 
in the sight of God with a more manlike man. 

Meanwhile the feet of the couple were going faster than 
their heads to the end of the journey. Diana knew she 
would have to hoist the signal — and how ? The pros- 
pect was dumbfoundering. She had to think of appeasing 
her Emma. K-od worth, for his part, actually supposed she 
had accepted his escorting in proof of the plain friendship 
offered him over-night. 

“ What do your ‘ birds ’ do in weather like this ? ” she 
said. 

“ Cling to their perches and wait patiently. It ’s the 
bad time with them when-you don’t hear them chirp.” 

“ Of course you foretold the gale. ” 

“Oh, well, it did not require a shepherd or a skipper 
for that.” 

“Your grand gift will be useful to a yachtsman.” 

“You like yachting. When I have tried my nevi 
schooner in the Channel, she is at your command for as 
long as you and Lady Dunstane please.” 

“ So you acknowledge that birds — things of nature — - 
have their bad time? ” 

“ They profit ultimately by the deluge and the wreck. 
Nothing on earth is ‘ tucked-up ’ in perpetuity.” 

“Except the dead. But why should the schooner be at 
our command ? ” 

“I shall be in Ireland.” 

He could not have said sweeter to her ears or more 
touching. 

“We shall hardly feel safe without the weather-wise on 
board.” 

“You may count on my man Barnes; I have proved him. 
He is up to his work even when he ’s bilious : only, in that 
case, occurring about once a fortnight, you must leave him 
to fight it out with the elements.” 

“I rather like men of action to have a temper.” 

“I can’t s.iy much for a bilious temper.” 


404 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


The weather to-day really seemed of that bind, she 
remarked. He assented, in the shrug manner — not to 
dissent: she might say what she would. He helped no- 
where to a lead; and so quick are the changes of mood at 
such moments that she was now far from him under the 
failure of an effort to come near. But thoughts of Emma 
pressed. 

“The name of the new schooner? Her name is her 
picture to me.” 

“I wanted you to christen her.” 

“'Launched without a name?” 

“I took a liberty.” 

Needless to ask, but she did. “With whom?” 

“I named her Diana.” 

“ May the Goddess of the silver bow and crescent protect 
her ! To me the name is ominous of mischance.” 

“ I would commit my fortunes and life ! ” . . . He 
checked his tongue, ejaculating: “Omens!” 

She had veered straight away from her romantic aspi- 
rations to the blunt extreme of thinking that a widow 
should be wooed in unornamented matter-of-fact, as she 
is wedded, with a “wilt thou,” and “I will,” and no deco- 
rative illusions. Downright, for the unpoetic creature, 
if you please! So she rejected the accompaniment of the 
silver Goddess and high seas for an introduction of the 
crisis. 

“This would be a thunderer on our coasts. I had a trial 
of my sailing powers in the Mediterranean.” 

As she said it, her musings on him then, with the con- 
trast of her position toward him now, fierily brushed her 
cheeks; and she wished him the man to make one snatch 
at her poor lost small butterfly bit of freedom, so that she 
might suddenly feel in haven, at peace with her expectant 
Emma. He could have seen the inviting consciousness, 
but he was absurdly watchful lest the flying sprays of 
border trees should strike her. He mentioned his fear, 
and it became an excuse for her seeking protection of her 
veil. “It is our natural guardian,” she said. 

“Not much against timber,” said he. 

The worthy creature’s anxiety was of the pattern of 
cavaliers escorting dames — an exaggeration of honest zeal; 


NUPTIAL CHAPTER 


405 


a present example of clownish goodness, it might seem', 
until entering the larch and firwood along the beaten 
heights, there was a rocking and straining of the shallow- 
rooted trees in a tremendous gust that quite pardoned him 
for curving his arm in a hoop about her and holding a 
shoulder in front. The veil did her positive service. ■ 

He was honourably scrupulous not to presume. A right 
good unimpulsive gentleman : the same that she had always 
taken him for and liked. 

“ These firs are not taproots, ” he observed , by way of 
apology. 

Her dress volumed and her ribands rattled and chirruped 
on the verge of the slope. “I will take your arm here,” 
she said. 

Redworth received the little hand, saying: “Lean to 
me.” 

They descended upon great surges of wind piping and 
driving every light surface-atom as foam; and they blinked 
and shook; even the man was shaken. But their arms 
were interlinked and they grappled; the battering enemy 
made them one. It might mean nothing, or everything- 
to him it meant the sheer blissful instant. 

At the foot of the hill, he said: “ It ’s harder to keep to 
the terms of yesterday.” 

“What were they?” said she, and took his breath more 
than the fury of the storm had done. 

“ Raise the veil, I beg.” 

“ Widows do not wear it.” 

The look revealed to him was a fugitive of the wilds, no 
longer the glittering shooter of arrows. 

“ Have you ? . . .” changed to me, was the signification 
understood. “ Can you ? — for life ! Do you think you 
can ? ” 

His poverty in the pleading language melted her. “ What 
I cannot do, my best of friends, is to submit to be seated on 
a throne, with you petitioning. Yes, as far as concerns 
this hand of mine, if you hold it worthy of you. We will 
speak of that. Now tell me the name of the weed trailing 
along the hedge there.” 

He knew it well ; a common hedgerow weed ; but the 
placid diversion baffled him. It was clematis, he said. 


406 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


“ It drags in the dust when it has no firm arm to cling to. 

I passed it beside you yesterday with a flaunting mind and 
not a suspicion of a likeness. How foolish I was ! I could 
volubly sermonize ; only it should be a young maid to listen, 
forgive me the yesterday.” 

“You have never to ask. You withdraw your hand — 
tfas: I rough ? ” 

“No,” she smiled demurely; “it must get used to the 
shackles : but my cottage is in sight. I have a growing 
love for the place. We will enter it like plain people — if 
you think of coming in.” 

As she said it she had a slight shock of cowering under 
eyes tolerably hawkish in their male glitter ; but her cool- 
ness was not disturbed, and without any apprehensions she 
reflected on what has been written of the silly division and 
war of the sexes : — which two might surely enter on an 
engagement to live together amiably, unvexed by that 
barbarous old fowl and falcon interlude. Cool herself, she 
imagined the same of him, having good grounds for the 
delusion; so they passed through the cottage-garden and 
beneath the low porchway, into her little sitting-room, 
where she was proceeding to speak composedly of her 
preference for cottages, while untying her bonnet-strings : — 
“ If I had begun my life in a cottage ! ” — when really a 
big. storm-wave caught her from shore and whirled her to 
mid-sea, out of every sensibility but the swimming one of 
her loss of self in the man. 

“ You would not have been here ! ” was all he said. She 
was up at his heart, fast-locked, undergoing a change greater 
than the sea works; her thoughts one blush, her brain a 
fire-fount. This was not like being seated on a throne.* 

“ There,” said he, loosening his hug, “ now you belong to 
me ! I know you from head to foot. After that, my darl- 
ing, I could leave you for years, and call you wife, and be 
sure of you. I could swear it for you — my life on it ! 
That ’s what I think of you. Don’t wonder that 1 took 
my chance — the first:-— I have waited!” 

Truer word was never uttered, she owned, coming into 
some harmony with man’s kiss on her mouth : the man 
violently metamorphozed to a stranger, acting on rights 
she had given him. And who was she to dream of denying 


NUPTIAL CHAPTER 


407 


them ? Not an idea in her head ! Bound verily to be 
thankful for such love, on hearing that it dated from the 
night in Ireland. ... u So in love with you that, on my 
soul, your happiness was my marrow — whatever you 
wished ; anything you chose. It ’s reckoned a fool’s part. 
No, it ’s love : the love of a woman — the one woman ! I 
was like the hand of a clock to the springs. I taught this 
old watch-dog of a heart to keep guard and bury the bones 
you tossed him.” 

“ Ignorantly, admit,” said she, and could have bitten her 
tongue for the empty words that provoked : “Would you 
have flung him nothing ? ” and caused a lowering of her 
eyelids and shamed glimpses of recollections. “ I hear you 
have again been defending me. I told you, I think, I 
wished I had begun my girl’s life in a cottage. All that I 
have had to endure ! ... or so it seems to me : it may be 
my way of excusing myself : — I know my cunning in that 
peculiar art. I would take my chance of mixing among 
the highest and the brightest.” 

“ Naturally.” 

“ Culpably.” 

“ It brings you to me.” 

“ Through a muddy channel.” 

“Your husband has full faith in you, my own.” 

“The faith has to be summoned and is buffeted, as we 
were just now on the hill. I wish he had taken me from 
a cottage.” 

“ You pushed for the best society, like a fish to its native 
sea.’’ 

“ Pray say, a salmon to the riverheads.” 

“Better,” Bedworth laughed joyfully, between admira- 
tion of the tongue that always outflew him, and of the face 
lie reddened. 

By degrees her apter and neater terms of speech helped 
her to a notion of regaining some steps of her sunken 
ascendancy, under the weight of the novel masculine pres- 
sure on her throbbing blood ; and when he bent to her to 
take her lord’s farewell ot her, after, agreeing to go and 
delight Emma with a message, her submission and her 
personal pride were not so much at variance : perhaps 
because her buzzing head had no ideas. “Tell Emma you 


408 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


have undertaken to wash the blackamoor as white as she 
can be,” she said perversely, in her spite at herself for not 
coming, as it were, out of the dawn to the man she could 
consent to wed : and he replied : “ I shall tell her my dark 
girl pleads for a fortnight's grace before she and I set sail 
for the West coast of Ireland:” conjuring a picture that 
checked any protest against the shortness of time : — and 
Emma would surely be his ally. 

They talked of the Dublin Ball : painfully to some of 
her thoughts. But Red worth kissed that distant brilliant 
night as freshly as if no belabouring years rolled in the 
chasm : which led her to conceive partly, and wonderingly, 
the nature of a strong man’s passion ; and it subjugated 
the woman knowing of a contrast. The smart of the blow 
dealt her by him who had fired the passion in her became a 
burning regret for the loss of that fair fame she had 
sacrificed to him, and could not bring to her truer lover : 
though it was but the outer view of herself — the world’s 
view j only she was generous and of honest conscience, 
and but for the sake of the truer lover, she would mentally 
have allowed the world to lash and abuse her, without a 
plea of material purity. Could it be named ? The naming 
of it in her clear mind lessened it to accidental: — By good 
fortune, she was no worse ! — She said to Red worth, when 
finally dismissing him : “ I bring no real disgrace to you, 
my friend.” — To have had this sharp spiritual battle at 
such a time, was proof of honest conscience, rarer among 
women, as the world has fashioned them yet, than the 
purity demanded of them. — His answer: “You are my 
wife ! ” rang in her hearing. 

When she sat alone at last, she was incapable, despite 
her nature’s imaginative leap to brightness, of choosing any 
single period, auspicious or luminous or flattering, since 
the hour of her first meeting this man, rather than the 
grey light he cast on her, promising helpfulness, and in- 
spiring a belief in her capacity to help. Not the Salvatore 
high raptures nor the nights of social applause could appear 
preferable: she strained her shattered wits to try them. 
As for her superlunary sphere, it was in fragments ; and 
she mused on the singularity, considering that she was not 
deeply enamoured. Was she so at all ? The question 


NUPTIAL CHAPTER 


409 


drove her to embrace the dignity of being reasonable — 
under Emma’s guidance. For she did not stand firmly 
alone ; her story confessed it. Marriage might be the 
archway to the road of good service, even as our passage 
through the flesh may lead to the better state. She had 
thoughts of the kind, and had them while encouraging her- 
self to deplore the adieu to her little musk-scented sitting- 
room, where a modest freedom breathed, and her individu- 
ality had seemed pointing to a straighter growth. 

She nodded subsequently to the truth of her happy 
Emma’s remark: “You were created for tht world, Tony.” 
A woman of blood and imagination in the warring world, 
without a mate whom she can revere, subscribes to a like- 
ness with those independent minor realms between greedy 
mighty neighbours, which conspire and undermine when 
they do not openly threaten to devour. So, then, this 
Union, the return to the wedding yoke, received sanction of 
grey-toned reason. She was not enamoured: she could 
say it to herself. She had, however, been surprised, both 
by the man and her unprotesting submission ; surprised 
and warmed, unaccountably warmed. Clearness of mind in 
the woman chaste by nature, however little ignorant it al- 
lowed her to be in the general review of herself, could not 
compass the immediately personal, with its acknowledge- 
ment of her subserviency to touch and pressure — and 
more, stranger, her readiness to kindle. She left it unex- 
plained. Unconsciously the image of Dacier was effaced. 
Looking backward, her heart was moved to her long-constant 
lover with most pitying tender wonderment — stormy man, 
as her threatened senses told her that he was. Looking 
at him, she had to mask her being abashed and mastered. 
And looking forward, her soul fell in prayer for this true 
man’s never repenting of his choice. Sure of her now, 
Mr. Thomas Red worth had returned to the station of the 
courtier, and her feminine sovereignty was not ruffled to 
make her feel too feminine. Another revelation was his 
playful talk when they were more closely intimate. He 
had his humour as well as his hearty relish of hers. 

“If all Englishmen were like him!” she chimed with 
Emma Dunstane’s eulogies, under the influence. 

“My dear,” the latter replied, “ we should simply march 


410 


DIANA OF THD CFOSSWAYS 


over the Four Quarters and be blessed by the nations! 
Only, avoid your trick of dashing headlong to the other 
extreme. He has his faults.” 

“Tell me of them,” Diana cooed for an answer. “Do. 
I want the flavour. A girl would be satisfied with super- 
human excellence. A widow asks for feature.” 

“To my thinking, the case is, that if it is a widow who 
sees the superhuman excellence in a man, she may be very 
well contented to cross the bridge with him,” rejoined 
Emma. 

“ Suppose the bridge to break, and for her to fall into the 
water, he rescuing her — then perhaps ! ” 

“ But it has been happening ! ” 

“ But piecemeal, in extension, so slowly. I go to him a 
derelict, bearing a story of the sea ; empty of ideas. I re- 
member sailing out of harbour passably well freighted for 
commerce.” 

“ When Tom Kedworth has had command of the ‘ dere- 
lict ’ a week, I should like to see her ! ” * 

The mention of that positive captaincy drowned Diana 
in morning colours. She was dominated, physically and 
morally, submissively too. What she craved, in the ab- 
sence of the public w r hiteness which could have caused her 
to rejoice in herself as a noble gift, was the spring of en- 
thusiasm. Emma touched a quivering chord of pride with 
her hint at the good augury, and foreshadowing of the 
larger Union, in the Irishwoman’s bestowal of her hand on 
the open-minded Englishman she had learned to trust. The 
aureole glimmered transiently : she could neither think 
highly of the woman about to be wedded, nor poetically of 
the man ; nor, therefore, rosily of the ceremony, nor other 
than vacuously of life. And yet, as she avowed to Emma, 
she had gathered the three rarest good things of life : a 
faithful friend, a faithful lover, a faithful servant : the two 
latter exposing an unimagined quality of emotion. Dan- 
vers, on the night of the great day for Kedworth, had un- 
dressed her with trembling fingers, and her mistress was led 
to the knowledge that the maid had always been all eye ; 
and on reflection to admit that it came of a sympathy she 
did not share. 

But when Celtic brains are reflective on their emotional 


NUPTIAL CHAPTER 


411 


vessel they shoot direct as the arrow of logic. Diana’s 
glance at the years behind lighted every moving figure to a 
shrewd transparency, herself among them. She was driven 
to the conclusion that the granting of any of her heart’s 
wild wishes in those days would have lowered her — or 
frozen. Dacier was a coldly luminous image ; still a toll- 
ing name ; no longer conceivably her mate. Recollection 
rocked, not she. The politician and citizen was admired : 
she read the man ;^more to her own discredit than to his, 
but she read him, and if that is done by the one of two 
lovers who was true to love, it is the God of the passion 
pronouncing a final release from the shadow of his chains. 

Three days antecedent to her marriage, she went down 
the hill over her cottage chimneys with Redworth, after 
hearing him praise and cite to Emma Dunstane sentences 
, of a morning’s report of a speech delivered by Dacier to his 
constituents. She alluded to it, that she might air her 
power of speaking of the man coolly to him, or else for the 
sake of stirring afresh some sentiment he had roused ; and 
he repeated his high opinion of the orator’s political wis- 
dom : whereby was revived in her memory a certain rep- 
rehensible view, belonging to her period of mock-girlish 
naughtiness — too vile ! — as to his paternal benevolence, 
now to clear vision the loftiest manliness. What did she 
do ? She was Irish ; therefore intuitively decorous in ama 
tory challenges and interchanges. But she was an impul- 
sive woman, and foliage was thick around, only a few small 
birds and heaven seeing; and penitence and admiration 
sprang the impulse. It had to be this or a burst of weep- 
ing : — she put a kiss upon his arm. 

She had omitted to think that she was dealing with a 
lover a man of smothered fire, who would be electrically 
alive to the act through a coat-sleeve. Redworth had his 
impulse. He kept it under, — she felt the big breath he 
drew in. Imagination began busily building a nest for 
him, and enthusiasm was not sluggish to make a home of 
it. The impulse of each had wedded; in expression and 
repression ; her sensibility told her of the stronger. 

She rose on the morning of her marriage day with his 
favourite Planxty Kelly at her lips, a natural bubble of the 
notes. Emma drove down to the cottage to breakfast and 


412 


DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 


superintend her bride’s adornment, as to which, Diana had 
spoken slightingly; as well as of the ceremony, and the 
institution, and this life itself : — she would be married 
jut of her cottage, a widow, a cottager, a woman under a 
cloud ; yes, a sober person taking at last a right practical 
step, to please her two best friends. The change was 
marked. She wished to hide it, wished to confide it. 
Emma was asked : “ How is he this morning ? ” and at the 
answer, describing his fresh and spirited looks, and his 
kind ways with Arthur Rhodes, and his fun with Sullivan 
Smith, and the satisfaction with the bridegroom declared 
by Lord Larrian (invalided from his Rock and unexpect 
ingly informed of the wedding), Diana forgot that she had 
kissed her, and this time pressed her lips, in a manner to 
convey the secret bridally. 

“He has a lovely day.” 

“ And bride,” said Emma. 

“If you two think so! I should like to agree with my 
dear old lord and bless him for the prize he takes, though 
it feels itself at present rather like a Christmas bon-bon — 
a piece of sugar in the wrap of a rhymed motto. He is kind 
to Arthur, you say ? ” 

“ Like a cordial elder brother.” 

“ Dear love, I have it at heart that I was harsh upon 
Mary Paynham for her letter. She meant well — and I 
fear she suffers. And it may have been a bit my fault. 
Blind that I was! When you say ‘cordial elder brother/ 
you make him appear beautiful to me. The worst of that 
is, one becomes aware of the inability to match him.” 

“ Read with his eyes when you meet him this morning, 
my Tony.” 

The secret was being clearly perceived by Emma, whose 
pride in assisting to dress the beautiful creature for her 
marriage with the man of men had a tinge from the hy- 
menseal brand, exulting over Dacier, and in the compensa- 
tion coming to her beloved for her first luckless footing on 
this road. 

“ How does he go down to the church ? ” said Diana. 

“ He walks down. Lukin and his Chief drive. He 
walks, with your Arthur and Mr. Sullivan Smith. He is 
on his way now.” 


NUPTIAL CHAPTER 413 

Diana looked through the window in the direction of the 
hill. ‘‘That is so like him, to walk to his wedding!” 

Emma took the place of Danvers in the office of the 
robing, for the maid, as her mistress managed to hint, was 
too steeped “ in the colour of the occasion ” to be exactly 
tasteful, and had the art, no doubt through sympathy, of 
charging permissible common words with explosive mean- 
ings : — she was in an amorous palpitation, of the reflected 
state. After several knockings and enterings of the bed- 
chamber-door, she came hurriedly to say: “And your 
pillow, ma’am ? I had almost forgotten it ! ” A question 
that caused her mistress to drop the gaze of a moan on 
Emma, with patience trembling. Diana preferred a hard 
pillow, and usually carried her own about. “ Take it,” she 
had to reply. 

The friends embraced before descending to step into the 
fateful carriage. “And tell me,” Emma said, “are not 
your views of life brighter to-day ? ” 

“ Too dazzled to know ! It may be a lamp close to the 
eyes or a radiance of sun. I hope they are.” 

“ You are beginning to think hopefully again ?” 

“ Who can really think and not think hopefully ? You 
were in my mind last night, and you brought a little boat 
to sail me past despondency of life and the fear of extinc- 
tion. When we despair or discolour things, it is our senses 
in revolt, and they have made the sovereign brain their 
drudge. I heard you whisper, with your very breath in my 
ear : ‘ There is nothing the body suffers that the soul may not 
profit by? That is Emma’s history. With that I sail into 
the dark : it is my promise of the immortal : teaches me to 
see immortality for us. It comes from you, my Emmy.” 

If not a great saying, it was in the heart of deep thoughts : 
proof to Emma that her Tony’s mind had resumed its old 
clear high-aiming activity ; therefore that her nature was 
working sanely, and that she accepted her happiness, and 
bore love for a dower to her husband. No blushing con- 
fession of the woman’s love of the man would have told her 
so much as the return to mental harmony with the laws of 
life shown in her darling’s pellucid little sentence. 

She revolved it long after the day of the wedding. To 
Emma, constantly on the dark decline of the unillumined. 


414 DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS 

verge, between the two worlds, those words were a radiance 
and a nourishment. Had they waned she would have 
trimmed them to feed her during her soul-sister’s absence. 
They shone to her of their vitality. She was lying along 
her sofa, facing her South-western window, one afternoon 
of late November, expecting Tony from her lengthened 
honeymoon trip, while a sunset in the van of frost, not with- 
out celestial musical reminders of Tony’s husband, began to 
deepen; and as her friend was coming, she mused on the 
scenes of her friend’s departure, and how Tony, issuing from 
her cottage porch, had betrayed her feelings in the language 
of her sex by stooping to lift above her head and kiss the 
smallest of her landlady’s children ranged up the garden- 
path to bid her farewell over their strewing of flowers ; — 
and of her murmur to Tony, entering the churchyard, 
among the grave-mounds: “ Old Ireland won’t repent it!” 
and Tony’s rejoinder, at the sight of the bridegroom advanc- 
ing, beaming : “ A singular transformation of Old England ! ” 
— and how, having numberless ready sources of laughter 
and tears down the run of their heart-in-heart intimacy, all 
spouting up for a word in the happy tremour of the moment, 
they had both bitten their lips and blinked on a moisture of 
the eyelids. Now the dear woman was really wedded, 
wedded and mated. Her letters breathed, in their own 
lively or thoughtful flow, of the perfect mating. Emma 
gazed into the depths of the waves of crimson, where 
brilliancy of colour came out of central heaven preter- 
naturally near on earth, till one shade less brilliant seemed 
an ebbing away to boundless remoteness. Angelical and 
mortal mixed, making the glory overhead a sign of the close 
union of our human conditions with the ethereal and 
psychically divined. Thence it grew that one thought in her 
breast became a desire for such extension of days as would 
give her the blessedness to clasp in her lap — if those kind 
heavens would grant it ! — a child of the marriage of the 
two noblest of human souls, one the dearest ; and so have 
proof at heart that her country and our earth are fruitful in 
the good, for a glowing future. She was deeply a woman, 
dumbly a poet. True poets and true women have the native 
sense of the divineness of what the world deems gross 
material substance. Emma’s exaltation in fervour had not 


NUPTIAL CHAPTER 


415 


subsided wlien she held her beloved in her arms under the 
dusk of the withdrawing redness. They sat embraced, with 
hands locked, in the unlighted room, and Tony spoke of the 
splendid sky. “ You watched it knowing I was on my way 
to you ? ” 

“ Praying, dear.” 

“For me ? ” 

“ That I might live long enough to be a godmother.” 

There was no reply : there was an involuntary little 
twitch of Tony’s fingers. 


IHE END, 






















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